


Pursuit of a Greater Thrill

by oleanderhoney



Series: The Colour of Light [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fem!John - Freeform, Moriarty is a sick bastard, Sherlock is an idiot on occasion, The Great Game, mycroft has a dog, playing with the order of events, so is Jane, so much pining it's like a forest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:31:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 65,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleanderhoney/pseuds/oleanderhoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events with the Black Lotus, Sherlock and Jane attempt to distance themselves from each other. But when emotions run high, they find themselves involved with a psychopath, and their connection may just be the only thing that saves them.</p><p>A redeux of TGG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bang

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! Here is the first chapter of this brand new installment! And guess what? Tis the 32nd of October, or as most of you know it as: NaNoWriMo! I have high hopes on finishing this by the end of the month but we shall see. And I really have to tell you guys how stupendous you've been with the lovely comments and encouragement. I hold all of your feedback to high esteem, and try my best to not let you guys down. Much love to you all, xxHoney.
> 
> Usual disclaimers apply: Cred belongs to Moff, Gat, the BBC, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> *Links in 'Afters' updated!

* * *

Sherlock lets the scalding hot water of the shower pound down on his back and shoulders as he presses his forehead to the tile. He kneads the back of his neck as the tension of the past nine hours on an aeroplane crammed in between a man (early fifties, traveling salesman, has two wives that neither are aware of) who snored incessantly, and a woman (mid forties, dental hygienist, used to be a man) with entirely too much perfume, swirls down the drain.

Belarus. What a _useless_ country. (Republic, actually. Semantics. Hardly mattered, although best not delete it; god forbid he ended up _back_ there by accident.)

Although he had seen it coming. He could tell by the email that the case of one Barry ‘Bezza’ Berwick was simply an open and shut domestic murder, (crime of passion, even, which was equally dull) but he jumped at it simply for the excuse to leave London for a few days. He needed the space in order to…clear his head.

It had nearly been a week since…since Jane and he…

He touches the tips of his fingers to his lips and closes his eyes.

Kissing. He had never wanted to, never cared for it, and after his first experience deemed it boring and superfluous. But that night, kissing _Jane_ — well that was something entirely different. Never had he felt so consumed with immediate need before. It was like a conflagration, engulfing his synapses on an utterly _primal_ level, demanding he push logic aside for once and simply _take._

It was a disturbing thought to say the least. (Or what should have been disturbing under the thrilling pulse of adrenaline.) 

However, what was perhaps more disturbing was the fact that the next morning as he watched Jane sleep peacefully against him, his was compelled to kiss her again. (And ironically unrepentant of the fact.) It was this when he realised how foolish of him it was to think that one night would _ever_ be enough. He really was a spectacular idiot sometimes.

He booked the flight for Minsk that morning and left two days after.

The thing of it was, though, his distance from her didn’t help in the slightest, and he hadn’t realised the full force of it until he walked into their flat and found it empty. He had vacillated in the sitting room for a moment, his hand already half way to his mobile before he abandoned the idea of immediately texting Jane and demanding to know where she was. (Even now he has a sinking feeling he knows _exactly_ where she is, and the thought irritates him.)

The shower starts to run cold, and he shuts it off before stepping out and wrapping a towel around his hips. With no Jane in the flat, and no clients, and absolutely no shred of Lestrade’s good graces remaining, Sherlock could feel the weight of languor dragging him down with every step he took towards his bedroom. It took all of his strength not to simply collapse in a half-naked heap on his bed and beg for death before the encroaching black mood could take full effect. The only thing that gave him pause was Jane’s nattering voice in the back of his head saying _‘Don’t be so dramatic.’_

It almost makes him smile despite himself, until he remembers that she’s still gone and he flops on his bed face first anyway.

He would have been content to wallow miserably, completely starkers for the rest of the night if it weren’t for Mrs. Hudson’s trademark ‘yoo-hoo’ drifting in from the sitting room. Sherlock groans.

“Sherlock? Is that you, love?”

Sherlock drags himself up from his bed and snatches some discarded sleep trousers from the floor and a ratty t-shirt from the hamper. He shoves his arms through his blue dressing gown, affronted it was inside out to begin with, and pulls open the door.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says bypassing her and throwing himself on the sofa.

“I thought that was you! Jane said you wouldn’t be home for at least another few hours, or I would have had some supper ready for you.”

“Not hungry,” comes his immediate reply.

“Oh pish. I’ll let the kettle boil and you can make some tea while I pop to the shops,” she says. “You’ll be a lot less stroppy with some decent tea in you. I should know.”

Sherlock twists to look at her at this, an eyebrow arched. “Mrs. Hudson…have you even _been_ to Belarus?” 

Mrs. Hudson turns around from where she was hanging up Sherlock’s coat and gives him a sly half-smile, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “I’m off out, dear. Anything special you would like me to pick up?” she says by way of an answer.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “No. I’m not hungry,” he says again and flops back down on the sofa.

“Oh Sherlock,” she titters and makes her way out of the flat.

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest and glares around the room. He spots the can of [yellow spray paint](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2057430) on the desk that Jane gave him as a joke, and he gets an idea.

***

_BANG!_

Bloody smiley face. It was a good idea at the time, but it only distracted him for all of eight seconds, and now it was just sitting there on the wall mocking him.

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

“What the HELL are you doing?” Jane shouts running into the sitting room. Her hair is in disarray, down for once and tousled about her face, and her cheeks pink from the night air. (Took the Tube on her way back from…oh interesting. She didn’t go to that Stephen person after all.)

He sighs. “Bored.”

“What?” she asks, incredulous.

“Bored!” he says and jumps up from his chair. He aims the gun in his hand at the wall again.

“No! Wait!” Jane clamps her hands over her ears.

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

“Bored! Bored!”

“Bloody, _stop!”_ Jane yells and snatches the gun (her gun) from him and disassembles it in record time. Sherlock sighs again and collapses on the sofa.

“I don’t know what’s got into the criminal classes lately. Lestrade’s lucky I’m not one of them. How is _Greg_ anyway?” he sneers.

Jane looks up from locking the gun in the small safe sat on the desk. “How…? Never mind. He’s fine.” She does a double take at the smiley on the wall. “I see you’ve…decorated.”

“Mm.”

She sighs in exasperation, but Sherlock doesn’t miss the almost proud smirk she tries to repress. “How was Russia?”

“Belarus,” Sherlock corrects, and Jane rolls her eyes. “Open and shut domestic murder. Hardly worth my time.” He stretches his legs out, digging his toes into the leather arm rest to dispel his restless energy.

“So you took it out on the wall, did you?”

“Ah, the wall had it coming.”

Jane shakes her head ruefully, and makes her way to stand over him. She folds her arms and regards him for a moment before sitting on the edge of the sofa by his hip.

“When did you get in?” she asks softly.

“A few hours ago,” he says.

She scrutinises his face, and reaches a hand out and gently sweeps her fingers along the dark circles under his eyes. Her touch is electrifying, and he forces his breathing to remain steady. It’s funny how this seemingly innocent touch holds so much more meaning now, and he fights the urge to lean in to her caress.

“You should sleep, then. I know you probably didn’t on the plane,” she says, concern creasing her careworn face. Her agile fingers rove up and begin to tenderly massage his forehead and around his temples. “I can tell you’ve got a headache.”

Sherlock hums, his eyes falling closed almost instantly. He didn’t realise how right she was until her ministrations began to ease the vice in his head. It was a relief to be close to her again even though the voice in the back of his mind reminded him relentlessly why he tried to leave in the first place. His trip to Minsk was meant to bring the walls back up between them, and so far he was failing. It was rather pathetic, actually.

“Any clients on your blog?” Jane asks. Sherlock peers at her through his lashes.

“It’s not a _blog,_ Jane. It’s a _website.”_

“You use the same platform as mine, so technically it’s a blog,” Jane says.

“Please,” he scoffs. “As if that inane drabble you chatter on about could even compare to what I do.” She glares and drops her hands.

“So you’ve read it,” she says getting to her feet and heading to the kitchen.

“Mm, on the plane. ‘A Study in Pink.’ Yes. I needed something to do to pass the time, even if it was something as prosaic as your blog,” he mumbles snatching a magazine from the coffee table and idly flipping through the pages.

“Well, you know: pink lady, pink suit case, pink phone. There was a lot of pink. It’s got quite a few readers, if I do say so myself,” she preens.

Sherlock snarls wordlessly and flings the magazine back onto the table.

“Hang on…” Jane says and walks back out into the sitting room. “That’s what’s got your knickers in a twist, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock sniffs.

“You’re jealous that I have more readers on that one post than you do on your entire 'website!'” she crows triumphantly.

“Am not!” Sherlock says and pulls himself upright in a huff.

“Oh yes you are!” she says jabbing a finger at him. “You’re upset that people like ‘A Study in Pink’ more than your encyclopaedia on tobacco ash.”

Sherlock glares at her. “It just shows you that the masses are mindless idiots that can be taken in with just a few lines of flowery prose.”

“So you didn’t like it, I take it?” Jane says.

“No as a matter of fact, I did not!”

“Why? The whole thing is mostly about you. I thought you’d be flattered.”

“Flattered? Let’s see… ‘Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.’”

Jane rolls her eyes. “Now hang on, I didn’t mean —”

“Oh you meant ‘spectacularly ignorant’ in a nice way? Look it doesn’t matter to me who’s prime minister…”

“Yeah,” she guffaws.

“…or which celebrity is sleeping with who —”

“— or that the Earth goes ‘round the Sun?” she says smirking.

“Oh god, [not that again](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2061631),” Sherlock says and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“It’s primary school stuff, how can you not know that?”

“Deleted it probably.”

“Like you did the airing cupboard?”

“…What?”

“God, stop deleting necessary rooms in our flat!” Jane says in exasperation. “And it’s the bloody solar system, for crying out loud!”

“ _Hell_ what does it matter?” he groans and puts his head in his hands. “So the Earth revolves around the Sun! If we went around the Moon or ‘round and round the garden like a teddy bear,’ it wouldn’t make any difference! People fill their heads with rubbish, Jane. My mind is like a hard drive, if I clutter it with useless information I can’t achieve maximum efficiency when it comes to the Work. That’s all that matters in the end. Put _that_ in your blog. Or better yet, stop inflicting your useless opinions on the world,” he sneers and flings himself sideways, curling into a ball with his back to the rest of the room.

“You deleted the solar system, but you still managed to keep a child’s nursery rhyme rattling around in your skull?” Jane says from behind him trying to sound non-fazed, but he can hear the hurt edge in her voice. (Damn. _Damn_ it. Of course he would hurt her. It’s inevitable even on his best days. She should know this by now. _Damn_.) He turns to look at her, but before he can say anything the shrill whistle of the kettle can be heard from the kitchen. Jane grits her teeth, and goes to fetch it.

“You need to get us a new electric by the way,” she says trying to smooth over the abrasive edges of their argument. “I’m sure Mrs. Hudson wants hers back at some point. And don’t think I don’t know about where our blender went. I bought the last one, so now it’s your turn to — _gahh!”_ Jane yelps. Sherlock leaps up and makes his way into the kitchen where he sees Jane with her hand on the fridge door, her head bowed and breathing hard.

“What? What happened?”

She doesn’t answer, but opens the fridge instead and presents it to him. He looks up at her, confused at her irritation.

“Do I really --? A _head,_ Sherlock!” she cries, incredulous. “A bloody _severed head!”_

“Yes,” he states and walks over to pour him a mug of water for tea.

“In our fridge!” she says again.

“I picked it up from Molly. I’m measuring the coagulation of saliva after death. You don’t mind do you?”

“Why would I mind?” she say weakly.

“Oh. Good,” he says and reaches for the sugar and tea bags.

“That was sarcasm Sherlock,” she deadpans.

“So you do mind?”

“Argh!” Jane shouts, at her wit’s end. She storms past him and grabs her jacket.

“Where are you going?” he says following her.

“Out! I need some air!” She throws her hair messily into a ponytail and slams the door. A moment later she comes back in and points an accusing finger at him. “Eat something, will you? There’s left over [risotto](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2069198) in the fridge. And for god’s sake _sleep_ so I can stand to be in the same room as you.”

And with that she turns on her heel and bangs down the stairs. Sherlock crosses the sitting room so he can watch her cross the street from the window.

“Oh, dear. It’s quite nippy out,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice comes in from behind him. “She should have wrapped herself up more.”

Sherlock sighs deeply through his nose and thunks his head against the glass. “Quiet.”

“What’s that, love?” she says bustling about the kitchen.

“It’s too quiet,” he says.

“Well. Maybe you’ll think next time before you run your young Jane out of the building,” Mrs. Hudson says knowingly, and Sherlock turns to face her looking abashed. “Don’t look at me like that. You really are a fright when you get growly.”

“Growl-y?” he says disdainfully arching an eyebrow.

“Yes. Now I picked you up some biscuits and more tea, the good kind mind, not the cheap stuff Jane insists on,” she says and sets the carrier bag on the only available space on the counter. “I’m making a roast which will be ready in one hour. I expect you to come down stairs and eat it with me.”

Sherlock goes to protest for the third time that he isn’t hungry when she cuts him off.

“You’ll be there, Sherlock. Especially if you don’t want me adding _that,”_ she points to the defaced wall, “to your rent, young man!” She tuts and makes her way downstairs.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, but smirks when he looks at his handy work. He steps up and over the coffee table and pokes a finger in one of the bullet holes, and sighs again. He lets his arm fall to his side and huffs indignantly.

“Quiet!” he complains to no one in particular.

Then, as if on cue, the building across from 221 explodes.


	2. Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is someone leaving messages for Sherlock...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you guys. Sorry it's been a while on this. Of course when I say I want to do NaNoWriMo I get busy with life and stuff. I was also in the process of finishing up my other story ['When the Earth'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/933948/chapters/1818038) (haha shameless self promo) that the inspiration to get this chapter done was slow coming. I've also decided to check out this whole 'Tumblr bidness' and have been trying to figure everything out. SO if any of you have a tumblr I would love it if you check me out and we can chat or whatever. I'm also planning on making [my tumblr](http://oleanderhoney.tumblr.com/) a place where I can keep you all updated on this story as well as other projects I am working on and also take request or answer questions.
> 
> Anyhoo. Here you all are my lovelies.
> 
> *Link updated in 'Afters!'

* * *

Jane wakes to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of sizzling bacon. She sits up groggily on the sofa she curled up on the night before, and brushes the quilt that was placed over her to the side.

“Good morning,” Stephen says bringing her a cup of coffee and turning on the telly that was mounted to the wall. The news comes on, and Jane blinks at it a few times before taking a sip. “Hope you’re an eggs and bacon sort of person, because that’s what’s on the menu.”

Jane rouses herself enough to make her way into Stephen’s quaint kitchen and leans against the worktop as he flips the rashers with a fork.

“Eggs and bacon is fine. More than. It’s rather one of the few things I can cook, and in my Uni days I practically lived off of bacon and egg sandwiches,” she says smiling. “Thanks for letting me stay here last night. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Oh it was no trouble. I just apologise I couldn’t offer you something more comfortable,” he says clearing his throat and shooting her a glance out of the corner of his eye.

“Well next time I’ll be sure not to wear out my welcome,” she rejoins.

“Yes of course,” Stephen says nodding. He looks at her. “What about the time after that?”

“Oh…” Jane trails off her eyes sliding away from his. She fixes them on the telly in the living room at a loss for what to say.

“I…never mind,” Stephen says shaking his head.

“No. I should be apologising,” Jane says setting her coffee on the counter. She brackets her palms on either side of her hips behind her as she continues to stare resolutely ahead. She stares hard at the screen, headline flashing something about a painting in an art gallery, and thinks carefully about how to phrase what she’s going to say next. Before she can, however, Stephen interrupts her.

“Before you say what I know you’re going to say, can I just…have one more moment where I can pretend I still have a chance?” he says giving her a rueful smile.

“Stephen I —”

“Please, Jane. I saw you that night after the circus. We both know who it is you belong to,” he says softly. This rankles her a bit, and she raises her chin defensively. She wants to tell him that she doesn’t _belong_ to anybody, but she shuts her mouth when he turns to her, a look of grim acceptance on his face. She knows that if she were to argue with him now, it would only add to the pain.

“I – I don’t know what to tell you,” she settles on lamely.

“You could tell me you’re not in love with him just so I could try to believe you for an extra two minutes,” he says with a self-deprecating grin.

She reels back slightly, her mind stuttering over the word _love._

Was she really so transparent? Obviously. Greg had seen it a mile away, almost from the day she met Sherlock, and had hovered around her protectively ever since. Mycroft had known something as well, if the hidden cameras in their flat and protective detail she occasionally caught tailing her were anything to go by. It was funny in hindsight, really, how she was the only one to be blindsided by her own feelings. In a 'holy-shit-oh-fuck-I'm-in-love-with-Sherlock' sort of way. Ironically, after the initial shock, there was a simple acceptance of the fact. Deep down, she knew it was rather inevitable. Underneath all of his short comings and abrasive exterior, there was a heart that matched the jagged edges of her own.

But could what _he_ feel for _her_ be considered love in return? No matter which way that question was answered, it terrified Jane to no end. However, with Sherlock one could never tell.

She knew he felt there was something between them just as much as she did, but she was unsure as to what extent. That night, in the darkness of her room where they collided in a frenzy of adrenaline fueled relief — a tangle of arms and legs and aching needy lips — she had settled for that being the only time she was allowed to simply fall head first into the eclipse that was Sherlock Holmes. 

After that, well, she would be lying if she said she wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.

After all, this was the man who’s creed was ‘Caring is not an Advantage’ and it was clear after the events of the Black Lotus just how compromised caring had made him. He thrived on the efficiency of his singular mind, and if anyone understood how emotion clouded thought it was definitely Jane. Jane who allowed her heart to rule her head at one point and got over half a dozen men killed in the process. 

This danger was real. Sherlock knew it, and she knew it. Entanglements like these, _especially_ in his line of work, were exceedingly dangerous for the both of them and apart from that one night of indulgence, they really needed to distance themselves from each other and go back to the inscrutability of flatmates.

Which in all honesty was easier said than done when all she wanted to do was be near him, run her fingers through his ridiculous hair, feel the beats of his heart against her cheek. Jane knew she had it bad when she was bloody waxing _poetic_ for chrissakes. She needed to try harder. She needed to attain the distance Sherlock achieved so easily because the alternative was leaving 221B for good. 

She had to want Stephen. She had to _want_ to choose him. 

She turns her gaze back on him, and she can see it so perfectly laid out before her. Stephen would be good for her if she let him. He would offer her normality and stability and she was pretty sure affection as well. She could let him, and it would be easy. She takes a breath…

_“…and now back to our main story: There has been a massive explosion in Central London…”_

Jane’s eyes flash to the television, and the air leaves the room. There, on the screen is a newscaster at the site of what does indeed seem to be the aftermath of an explosion, emergency vehicles and detritus scattered all over the pavement. Behind him is the familiar red awning of Speedy’s Café on Baker Street. 

“Turn it up!” She shouts and crosses the short distance from kitchen to living room, and pounces on the remote.

“Jane what —?”

“Oh my god…” she says sitting heavily on the arm of the sofa, hand over her mouth as the story continues to unfold and the war zone that is her street fills her vision.

_“…As of yet, there are no reports of any casualties, and police are unable to say if there is any suspicion of terrorist involvement. Stay tuned for further developments.”_

Jane sits there frozen in abject horror for all of two seconds before she surges to her feet.

“I have to — I need to go,” she says spinning around in a circle looking for her things. She crams her feet into her shoes, squashing the heels and absolutely beyond giving a damn and snatches her coat off the back of a chair. “My phone, where’s my —?”

“Jane, relax. It’s going to be okay,” Stephen says placing her phone in her hand and stilling her by the shoulders. “Take a breath all right?”

She closes her eyes, willing her breathing to slow, and looks up into his face. It finally hits her. “Oh, Stephen, I’m so sorry I —”

“No it’s all right. I understand. Go,” he says.

She presses her lips into a thin line and nods curtly. In the back of her mind she can almost hear her own voice laughing bitterly at herself as she hails a taxi out on the main road. Between Sherlock and anybody else, there never really was a choice, was there? No choice at all.

***

Baker Street, as expected, was cordoned off, so Jane had the cab drop her off the next street over. After haphazardly throwing a wad of cash at the driver, she took off like a shot and sprinted the whole way, her heart pounding in her ears as she tried to keep the fear from stifling her. She had tried calling Sherlock immediately, but his phone was shut off, and she just hoped that if anything serious had happened to him, Mycroft would have been in touch with her.

“I live just over there,” she says to an officer. “Can I go through?”

“All right,” he says and lets her pass, and Jane makes her way over bricks and bits of pavement.

Speedy’s looks okay, and to her relief so does 221, the only damage the shattered windows as far as she can tell. She unlocks the door.

“Sherlock?” she says taking the stairs two at a time. “Sherlock!”

She bursts into the sitting room, and her eyes lock immediately onto Sherlock, impeccably dressed as if their flat wasn’t actually caught in the aftermath of an explosion. He holds her gaze, no doubt deducing everything about her within seconds, and stands abruptly from where he was sitting in his chair. He makes as if to go to her, but stops and nonchalantly folds his hands into his trouser pockets.

“Jane,” he says, eyes boring into hers with an intensity that makes her shiver, and he nods once.

“I – I saw it on the telly. Are you okay?” she says faltering a bit, her knees feeling weak at the sudden relief at seeing him. She eyes the boarded up windows and the dust and papers scattered all over the floor and the desk.

“I’m fine,” he says softly.

“It was a gas leak, apparently,” Mycroft says getting likewise to his feet from the chair opposite. Jane gives a little start, only just realising he's there.

“I can’t be of assistance to you Mycroft,” Sherlock says snappishly, turning towards the mantle piece and retrieving his violin where it was balanced precariously on its side. He plucks an atonal chord and flops back down in his chair. “I can’t spare the time.”

Jane tries to get her bearings with the sudden shift in the room. She shoots a glance at Sherlock, but he looks resolutely ahead, and she decides not to comment on the egregious lack of _absolutely anything_ going on of significance. If Sherlock wanted to pretend he was busy to avoid Mycroft, she would let him. The last thing she wanted was to end up in the middle of the Holmes brothers. Again. She goes over to tidy some books and a pile of sheet music.

“Never mind your usual trivial escapades,” Mycroft says imperiously, and Sherlock twangs a string on the violin. “This is of National importance.”

“How’s the diet?” Sherlock remarks cruelly. Mycroft sniffs and purses his lips.

“ _Fine,”_ he says tersely and turns to Jane. “Perhaps you can get through to him, Doctor? My brother can be so intransigent.”

“Any reason why you couldn’t investigate it _yourself?”_ Sherlock says picking up his bow and proceeding to apply a liberal amount of rosin to it.

“Oh no I couldn’t possibly. What with the Korean elections so…well you don’t need to know about that,” he chuckles cryptically and Sherlock rolls his eyes. “A case like this requires a certain amount of _legwork._ Besides. I figured you would relish the opportunity. Sherlock’s ‘business’ seems to be booming since you and he…got together,” he says pointedly, and Jane looks away, her cheeks heating as she sits down in the desk chair. “What’s he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine?”

“Well I’m never bored,” she deadpans, and Sherlock snorts.

“Good. That’s…good isn’t it?” Mycroft says rocking up on the balls of his feet.

An awkward silence stretches out between the three of them, and just before Jane decides to get up and make some tea, Mrs. Hudson’s voice carries from the hall.

“Yoo – hoo! Boys?” she says entering the sitting room. On her heels bounding cheerfully behind her is an Irish Setter with a gleaming fur coat and a large rib bone curving up from his jowls. “Oh Jane! I didn’t know you were back yet.”

“[Benedict?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2087791)” Jane says coming over to the dog and scrubbing him affectionately behind his floppy ears. “I didn’t know you brought him along, Mycroft.”

“Oh yes. He does hate being cooped up in the office for too long,” Mycroft says, and Jane doesn’t miss the fondness in his tone underneath the usually cool exterior. For as stoic as the British Government himself could be, Jane never thought he would have a soft spot for animals, but ironically he and Benedict hit it off right away. It was actually rather adorable, if she thought about it, but she kept her opinion on the matter to herself. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, for watching him for me while I made sure my dear brother was all right.”

“It was no trouble, dear. He’s such a sweet boy,” Mrs. Hudson says and pats him on the head. “I’m glad you’re all right as well, Sherlock love.” Sherlock waves dismissively in her direction and picks up his bow. With a final exasperated shake of her head, she heads back down stairs.

Benedict trots over and happily plops down next to Mycroft’s feet. He sets to work on his bone in earnest, and Sherlock makes a disgusted _ugh_ -noise in the back of his throat.

“The whole point of you taking him, Mycroft, was so I wouldn’t have to set eyes on the furry mongrel ever again. It defeats the purpose if you bring him over,” Sherlock says, and Ben lifts his head. If Jane didn’t know any better she would say that the dog actually glared _back_ at Sherlock. She sits on the coffee table and pats her knees, and he gets up and pushes his head into her hands for more pets.

“I don’t know why you are so hostile, Sherlock. He _is_ just a dog,” Mycroft says.

“Any _thing_ in cahoots with you is automatically my adversary.”

“Always so dramatic,” Mycroft says, and Sherlock whips his bow pointedly through the air. The brothers glare at each other for a silent moment before Mycroft retrieves a file sitting on the small table next to the chair. He hands it to Jane. “Andrew West. Or better known as ‘Westie’ to his friends. Civil Servant, found on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in.”

Jane flips open the folder and skims over the information. “Jumper?”

“Seems the most logical assumption…” Mycroft trails off.

“But? You wouldn’t be here if this were only an accident,” she says. Sherlock scoffs and fiddles with the fine tuners on his violin.

“The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defence system — the Bruce-Partington Program, it’s called. The plans for it were on a memory stick.”

“I could be wrong, but that doesn’t sound very smart,” Jane frowns. Ben grunts and looks up at her, and she laughs and pats his head. “Ben seems to agree. And he’s a dog.”

Mycroft smirks and collects his umbrella from where it was leaning against the wall. “It’s not the only copy. But it is secret, and unfortunately missing.”

“ _Top_ secret?” Jane says more to Benedict than Mycroft. The dog’s tongue lolls out contentedly as she scratches under his collar.

“Very. Our intel suggests West took the memory stick for whatever reason, and we can’t possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands. You’ve got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don’t make me order you,” he says casually, but there is a veiled threat to the words lurking just under the surface.

Sherlock tucks the violin under his chin and raises his bow. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Think it over.” He adjusts the cuffs of his suit, and eyes Jane. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you _very_ soon. Come along, Benedict.”

Ben perks up at the sound of his name and goes to stand by Mycroft. Sherlock pulls the bow sharply across the strings in an imitation of a really bad arpeggio, which sets him off in a half howl-bark that makes Jane jump. Sherlock smirks, and Mycroft narrows a look at him. 

“Good _bye,_ Mycroft,” Sherlock says.

“Always so childish,” he grumbles, and with one last look at Jane, he exits the flat, Ben in tow.

“Ugh,” Sherlock says again. “That slobbering flea-beast left his bone.”

Jane huffs and picks it up off the floor to be thrown away, and on her way back out to the sitting room she puts on the kettle.

“Why did you lie?” she says dropping down into her chair across from him.

“Hm?” he says distractedly, scratching the back of his head with the bow.

“You’ve got nothing on. Not a single case. That’s why the wall took a pounding, remember? Why did you tell Mycroft you were busy?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” is his reply as he stands to put the violin away back in its case. She looks at him abashed.

“Really? That’s what that was all about? A sibling rivalry? You’d rather be bored stiff than comply with one of your brother’s requests?”

“I’m not bored,” Sherlock suddenly says as he leans over the desk. He peers through the crack in between the boards over their windows.

“You’re not?”

“Not anymore!” he says gleefully and spins around in a circle looking for something. He snatches a book off the floor and jumps over the back of the leather armchair, affecting all the nonchalance he had before.

Before Jane can even ask, she hears footsteps coming up the stairs, followed by the entrance of her uncle.

“Greg?” she says meeting him in the hall.

“Hey Janey. Can I come in?” he asks.

“Yes,” Jane says warily shooting a glance over her shoulder where Sherlock appears to be engrossed in his book. Which is utter crap, the bloody faker. “I’m okay and so is Sherlock. I wasn’t here when it happened.”

“What? Oh, yes of course. You’re all right then?” he says taking his eyes off Sherlock. She gives him a look.

“You’re not here for me are you?” she says.

He sighs. “Er, no actually,” he says, defeated. “I’m here for him.”

“You might as well come in, Lestrade. Jane’s making tea, and I would much rather hear your apology over a cup. Jane?”

Jane shakes her head and gestures for Lestrade to take a seat. She had half a mind to tell Sherlock off for being an arse, but after talking with Lestrade last night about the impromptu drugs bust he felt necessary to implement after the circus fiasco, she felt less sorry for him than she usually would.

She sets about making three cups of tea while Sherlock and Lestrade stare at each other in the sitting room. She rolls her eyes to herself. “Men.”

“Thank you Jane. Pull up a seat this should be good,” Sherlock says taking his tea from her. She sits at the desk. “Well?”

Lestrade scowls at him over the rim of his mug. He clears his throat before setting it down on the table. “Look. Let’s just agree on the fact that you’re a difficult person, and sometimes make me lose my temper. It’s practically a scout’s badge to you, so don’t even pretend like it offends you.”

“Fair enough,” Sherlock nods looking pleased with himself.

“And let’s also agree that I let you get away with far more than I should, and put up with way more of your shit than I deserve,” he says, and Sherlock’s smile falls from his face. He sniffs disdainfully.

“I’ll acknowledge the fact if you acknowledge that you and your team are a bunch of blundering idiots who can’t investigate their way out of a paper sack.”

“Sherlock,” Jane says pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I _mean_ to say, I agree that I’m the best you’ve got and by far the most willing to bring your criminals to justice in all of New Scotland Yard.”

“Close enough,” Lestrade says. “And I _agree_ that my judgment to throw you off my team may have been a bit hasty due to the circumstances. Even though I have every right to yank your privileges in the future if I even think you’ve gone off the rails.”

Sherlock opens his mouth indignantly, but before he can say anything, Jane claps her hands together.

“Okay, so we all agree then? What have you got, Greg?”

Sherlock sits back in his chair and huffs out of his nose, looking grudgingly interested.

“You like the funny cases, don’t you? The surprising ones?” Lestrade starts.

“Obviously,” Sherlock clips.

“Well you’re gonna love this. That explosion…”

“Gas leak, yes?”

“Nope.”

“ _No?”_ Sherlock says sitting up straighter.

“Made to look like one,” Lestrade says.

“Hang on, what?” Jane says.

“And that’s not all. Inside the flat was hardly anything but a strong box. A _very_ strong box. It survived the explosion.”

“And you’ve opened it?”

“Yes,” Lestrade says haltingly, suddenly dubious.

“What was inside?”

“An envelope,” he says. Sherlock licks his lips, anticipation rolling off of him in waves. Jane can’t help but lean forward likewise in her seat.

“And?” Sherlock says.

“It’s addressed to you.”

The sitting room takes on an air of electricity as the three of them are suspended in the aftershock of Lestrade’s revelation. A bad feeling slithers down Jane’s spine and she takes a nervous sip of tea.

Sherlock, on the other hand, looks absolutely thrilled. 

“Did you open it?” he says gripping the armrests.

“Well it’s addressed to you innit? It’s down at the station, will you come?”

“Not in a police car, I’ll follow behind in a cab,” he says getting to his feet. Lestrade stands as well.

“Thanks for the tea, Janey,” he says, and she nods as he makes his way out of the flat. She gathers up the mugs as Sherlock buttons up his coat, muttering excitedly under his breath. On her way to the kitchen he grabs her by the arms and turns her about.

“Finally, _finally_ , Jane! A case! It’s been far too long!” he says.

“Oi! Watch it,” she says as tea sloshes over the brim of one of the mugs.

“Put that down, there’s no time for that now, we have to go!” he says rushing to the door.

“Wait,” she says setting the mugs on the counter. He turns around impatiently in the doorway. “You still want me to come? What about inflicting my opinions on the world and all that?”

He regards her just then, eyes dropping to the floor for a moment before softening slightly as he looks at her. “Nonsense, Jane. I’d be _lost_ without my blogger,” he says, a meek smile curling the corner of his mouth. 

Jane smiles back and grabs her jacket. How could she ever consider giving this up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh and if anyone is confused about Mycroft's dog it might be helpful to read [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1968259) first.


	3. The Curtain Rises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a fine line between someone taking an interest and someone with an obsession...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three! Sorry if it's been a while. The Universe decided to give me the flu. Thanks Universe, yer a dick. I apologise in advance if it seems like this chapter is by the book. I try to make these chapters as intersting as possible even though they are pretty close to what happens in the show. (Except for the whole order of events thing.)
> 
> Oh yes and I should probably mention I do not have a beta reader so all mistakes are mine. I edit manically after I post these, but if you all see any mistakes feel free to let me know.
> 
> And thanks to all of you who comment. I heart you all.
> 
> *Link for Afters updated. Finally!

* * *

Sherlock follows Lestrade through NSY, practically thrumming with energy. A staged explosion directly across from his flat with a neat little package just for him? Someone wanted to play, and he had the distinct feeling he knew exactly who it was.

“Where is it?” he demands impatiently, striding into Lestrade’s office.

“Here,” he says, handing a heavy cream coloured envelope over to Sherlock. He takes it over to the anglepoise lamp sitting on the desk and holds it delicately suspended between the tips of his gloved fingers. In a looping cursive is his name written in fountain pen.

“Nice stationary. Bohemian — from the Czech Republic. No finger prints?” he asks.

“None,” Lestrade says.

“She used a pen: Parker Duofold, iridium nib.”

“‘She?’” Jane says from over his shoulder.

“Yes, obviously. Look at the way she forms her vowels,” he says and reaches for a letter opener sitting in a small jar along with various pens and pencils. She touches his wrist.

“Should you open it?” she asks, worried, and looks at Lestrade.

“We’ve x-rayed it. It’s not booby trapped,” the DI says.

“Oh how reassuring,” Sherlock mutters sarcastically, and tucks the letter opener into the flap. He draws it across the top carefully, however, anticipation licking the base of his spine. He peeks inside, and has to stifle the grin that threatens to break out on his face. (Oh, clever. Very clever. Almost coy, even.) He tips the contents out into his palm, and Jane gasps.

“That’s the phone! The pink lady’s phone!” she says.

“What, you mean from ‘A Study in Pink’?” Lestrade asks.

“Don’t be daft. Of course it’s not the same phone, but it’s meant to look like —” he stops dead. (A Study in Pink. What the actual hell?) “Wait, you read Jane’s blog?” he asks incredulously whirling to face Lestrade.

Sergeant Donovan breezes in just then, and snorts. “Of course. The whole office does. Is it true you really don’t know the Earth goes ‘round the Sun?” 

Lestrade barks a laugh, and Jane purses her lips at least having the decency to look contrite. Sherlock glares daggers at Donovan.

“The _point_ is that someone has gone through an awful lot of trouble in making it look like the same phone, which means your _blog_ has a far wider readership,” he says, inspecting the power connections. He shows them to Jane. “See? Brand new.”

“But…why?” she asks. Curiosity and concern war on her face, and a thrill of excitement blazes through him when he sees that the curiosity wins.

“Let’s find out,” he says and holds the phone out to her. He lights up the ‘Locked’ screen, and she stretches out a finger, her breath hitching before she slides the unlock button. Sherlock taps the notification icon, and puts the voice message on speaker phone.

_Beep…beep…beep…beep…beeeep!_

“Is that it?” Jane asks.

“No that’s not it,” Sherlock says as a photo pops up on the screen. It the image of a sleek black car with the driver’s side door hanging wide open. The number plate is clearly visible. “Looks abandoned, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s all we have to go on? A picture of a Mazda and the bloody Greenwich Pips?” Lestrade says exasperated.

“It’s a warning. Some secret societies used dried melon seeds, orange pips, things of the like to send messages. Five pips,” he says catching Jane’s eye. “They’re warning us this is going to happen again.”

“I’ll run the numbers and see if it’s been reported,” Lestrade says indicating the car. He turns to Sergeant Donovan, and they huddle around the computer while Lestrade gets on his mobile.

“Hang on, what’s going to happen again?” Jane asks, trepidation skittering across her face.

 _“Boom,”_ Sherlock says, gravely. The pink phone in his hand suddenly rings making Jane jump, and Sherlock hold his breath. A tense silence descends over the room as the jangling ring tone sounds for the second time. All eyes are on him as he hits the answer button. 

There is a heavy breathing on the other end which sounds unnaturally loud in the stillness. Sherlock looks at Lestrade, and the man comes over with a pen and paper. He nods to Sherlock. 

"Hello?” Sherlock says softly.

 _“H-hey there, Sexy,”_ comes the terrified reply on the other end. It’s a woman, that much is certain, her voice clogged with tears and despair.

“Who is this? Who’s calling?” Sherlock says, and Lestrade signals for someone outside the office to set up a trace.

 _“I’ve sent you…a little…puzzle. Just to say…hi,”_ the woman says haltingly.

“Who’s talking?” Sherlock tries again. “Are you hurt? Why are you crying?”

 _“I’m…not crying…I’m t-typing. And this…stupid…bitch…is reading it out,”_ the woman sobs.

“The curtain rises,” Sherlock says to himself as the pieces click into place. This scheme is elaborate, targeting, and exceedingly elegant in its efforts to get his attention. It was working.

“What was that? What do you mean?” Jane asks.

“Nothing. I’ve just been expecting this for some time, now,” he says.

Before Jane can ask any more questions, the woman on the line starts speaking again. _“You have…eight hours…to solve my puzzle, Sherlock…or I’m going…to be…so naughty. The clue…is in the name…tick…tock…”_

The line goes dead.

“Goddammit,” Lestrade curses. “We couldn’t complete the trace.” He drags a hand through his hair.

“Sir?” Donovan says. “I think I found the car.”

“Where is it?” Lestrade asks circling back around the desk to look over her shoulder.

“A car matching this description was reported just today over on Greenwich Pennisula, Enderby’s, behind an old warehouse. It’s registered to an Ian Monkford. A rental car, by the looks of it. What’s more is it seems as if Mrs. Monkford filed a missing person’s enquiry a few days ago on her husband.”

“All right, let’s get down there,” Lestrade says, and straightens up. “Monkford. Does that ring any bells, Sherlock?”

“No,” he says and follows Lestrade and Donovan out of the office with Jane on his heels. A thought occurs to him. “You might want to bring your forensics squad as well.”

The DI pauses and looks around to him. He takes in Sherlock’s meaning, and nods in grim understanding before barking at Anderson to rally his team.

“The clue is in the name…” Jane says as they slide into a cab moments later. “What did they mean by that? Monkford?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says thumbing through his phone. He cross references the surname Monkford with Mumford and other variations (French in origin, monk possibly a derivative of _mont_ and ford a possible derivative of _fort._ Strong hill? Strong hold? Mount and hill, strong, Conquerer? No, no, and definitely not.) and they all leave him irritatingly blank. “I need more data,” he admits, frustrated, twirling the phone between his thumb and forefinger. He settles for staring out the window for the rest of the ride torn between shameless intrigue and impatient anxiousness.

***

“No body?” Sherlock asks Lestrade once they’ve finally secured the scene and allowed Jane and him access. (Honestly, protocol was so tiresome.) Sherlock tilts his head, scrutinising the crimson splashes of blood smeared all over the leather driver’s seat and the console.

“Not yet,” Lestrade says rubbing his jaw. “And before you ask, the blood is indeed Monkford’s. DNA checks out with what we have on file.”

“Get a sample sent to the lab, and I shouldn’t have to remind you to have it cleared for me to test,” Sherlock says glaring at Anderson over the DI’s shoulder. (Like he would really leave it up to _Anderson_.) “What do you know about our Mr. Monkford?”

“The car was hired three days ago by him, city boy; a banker of some kind. Paid in straight up cash,” he says rifling through his notes. Sherlock opens the glove compartment and pulls out a calling card for the rental place. “Told his wife he was going away on a business trip, but he never arrived.”

“Is that her over there?” Sherlock asks nodding in the direction of a woman in a black dress suit blotting her eyes with a handkerchief. She was talking to a constable, and even from this distance Sherlock could see her tears were fake. 

“Yes,” Lestrade says, and Sherlock smirks. “Now, wait. She’s clearly distraught. Don’t go making it worse,” he says a hard look in his eye.

“I can be _delicate_ when the situation calls for it, Inspector,” Sherlock says to which the DI snorts. Jane even raises her eyebrows at him. “No really. Besides, I will have Jane with me. She’ll keep me in line, won’t you Jane?”

“Er…?” she says.

“See?” Sherlock says and grabs her elbow, pulling her away from where Sergeant Donovan had been engaging her in conversation moments ago. Sherlock doesn’t miss the pointed look she gives Jane, and decides to ignore it. He leads them a few paces away. “Quick, think of something sad,” he intones.

“What?” Jane says, bewildered. Sherlock gives her a cursory sweep, and makes a frustrated noise.

“No good. You’re too honest.” He takes off a glove.

“What are you talking abo — OW!” she yelps when Sherlock suddenly pinches her just behind the ear. Hard. She blinks rapidly, tears suddenly springing to her eyes. “What the bloody hell was that for?!”

“Remember, this woman’s husband is missing, probably dead so look sympathetic,” Sherlock says as he drags her towards Mrs. Monkford. At the last moment, he slips an arm around Jane’s waist and pulls her close. He bites rather hard on the inside of his cheek causing his own eyes to sting. (Expression: one of empathy, disillusionment, grief.) 

“Mrs. Monkford?” he implores.

“Yes? Who are you?” the woman says, tucking her arms over her chest.

“We’re friends of Ian’s,” Sherlock says. (Affect vocal intonation.) “Sherlock Holmes, and [this is Jane.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2135479) I, um, I grew up with your husband.”

“I’m sorry, who?” Mrs. Monkford says looking between them. She blinks harder still willing her non-existent tears to form. “He never mentioned you before.”

(Shock, but not too much. More…gently abashed.) “What? Oh he – he must’ve done,” Sherlock says, his voice wavering. He rubs a hand up and down Jane’s arm as if to warm her, and is pleased when he looks down and finds that -- for all intents and purposes -- she’s playing along with the charade even through it is clear she is unhappy with him. He gives a watery sniff, and Jane’s eyes narrow imperceptibly. “This is…this just horrible, isn’t it? I mean, I just saw him the other day, same old Ian, not a care in the world.” (Reminiscent smile. A little more broken. There it is, good. Subtlety was key, after all.)

“Sorry?” Mrs. Monkford says, scandalised. “My husband’s been quite depressed recently. For months actually. Who _are_ you?”

(She wasn't buying it. It was time to cut to the quick.) “Strange he would hire a car. Why would he do that? Bit suspicious, isn’t it?”

“No it isn’t!” she defends. “He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that’s all!”

(Good naturedly; innocuous.) “Oh well that _was_ just like Ian! That was Ian all over.”

“What? No it wasn’t,” she says, nearly outraged. (Bingo.)

 _“Wasn’t_ it?” Sherlock says instantly dropping the persona giving her a cold, hard stare. “Interesting. Come on, Jane.” 

Without seeing if she was following, Sherlock spins on his heel and stalks away, ignoring the indignant protests of Mrs. Monkford. This whole thing reeked of being staged, and he just had to find the connection.

“Was that really necessary?” Jane asks trotting up beside him. 

“Oh don’t try to tell me I was being insensitive. Surely even you could tell her tears were fake. Look mine were ever better than hers, and I’m not the one with the missing spouse!” Sherlock says. He runs a finger under his eye, catching the remains of a tear that escaped to prove his point.

“Yeah I did notice,” Jane says in a defeated tone that says she wishes it wasn’t true. (He knew she would deny it outright if he ever mentioned it, but Jane really was a romantic at heart.) “But were the water works really necessary?”

“From me, probably not, but from you definitely,” he says holding up the blue and white police tape for her.

“Why me? Seemed like you had everything handled just fine,” she says a little bitterly, and Sherlock turns to her.

“You’re upset,” he states. “Why?” His eyes sweep over her. “Oh I see. You think I used you as a device for manipulation, and this concerns you because of your steadfast _morality.”_ He grimaces at the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Didn’t you though?” she says ignoring the slight.

“Of course,” he says not understanding why she had such a problem. “Having you by my side is most convenient. You garner a certain amount of harmlessness that people don’t think twice about. It shouldn’t come as a shock to you, but people don’t normally trust me, which admittedly I do nothing to amend regardless of how much it hinders me in the process.”

“Ah. So I’m basically your detour around having to be civil, then? You can disregard basic human courtesy as long as I'm there to do your damage control?” she says wryly, jamming her hands into her jacket pockets. She raises her chin in challenge, and Sherlock acknowledges he probably crossed the line with this one. Too bad he didn’t _do_ guilt.

“If you have a _problem_ with my methods then I suggest you take up _knitting_ like Sergeant Donovan suggested,” he says acidly. Jane blinks at him in surprise. “Oh what, did you think I wasn’t paying attention when she was warning you off me back there? For the second time I might add. Unlike the rest of the simple-minded population I _can_ multi-task quite efficiently. I thought you knew what you were getting yourself into, dubious ethics and all, seeing as you had no problem shooting a man —”

“Hey!” she says, shooting a glance at Lestrade over his shoulder. “Keep it down, would you?”

“— surely a little _playacting_ shouldn’t be too nefarious for you,” Sherlock continues not bothering to lower his voice. “Of course if I was mistaken, you are free to leave at anytime and continue to try and pretend at the sad farce that passes as a _normal_ life these days. No one is stopping you!” He finishes, his arm sweeping out as if showing her the way before it falls back against his side. 

Distantly, a part of him realises he just gave Jane the option to leave, and he has to swallow the sudden panic before it shows on his face. He raises his eyebrows in challenge, schooling his expression into one of indifference even though every part of him wants to clap a hand over his mouth and try to physically stuff the words back where they came from. He knows she has been waiting for this, having never directly discussed where their…situation (relationship?) currently stood since that night. He also knows she’s been waiting for him to make the first move, and with a sickening realisation, he acknowledges he probably did just that. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, a sudden wave of dizziness swamping him. He manages to fix her with a steady, determined look, but it was a close thing.

Jane purses her lips, her honeyed irises sharp and catching the flat April light in a way that makes him feel like she can see through anything. He waits on tenterhooks for her verdict.

She blows a long breath out of her mouth, almost deflating, and her brows draw together. “Do you want me to leave?” she asks.

“No,” he practically blurts.

“Right,” she says nodding. A hand comes up to massage the back of her neck and she fixes her eyes on the ground in consternation. Sherlock holds his breath as she comes to a decision, her jaw tensing signaling she’s made her mind up. “So you think she murdered her husband, then?”

Sherlock breathes out, relieved. “No, definitely not,” he says walking off in the direction of the main road. “People don’t like telling you things, but they are naturally inclined to contradict you, especially when feeling defensive. I switched to past tense, and she joined right in. Bit premature, don’t you think? Her husband’s only been missing for a few days. That’s not a mistake a murderer would make.”

“I see,” Jane says falling in stride with him.

“Really?”

“Nope,” she says with a deprecating smirk. The rest of Sherlock's anxiety fades as the order between them is restored. “Where are we headed to now?”

“Janus Cars,” he says flicking the business card in her direction. She takes it twirling it between her fingers. “The rental company Monkford went through. Found it in the glove compartment.”

“Six hours,” Jane says.

“What?”

“Six hours left to go,” she says again. Sherlock doesn’t reply, and puts his hand in the air for a cab.

***

“Hah!” Sherlock says bursting out of Mr. Ewart’s office a little while later. He punches a fist into his gloved hand in triumph.

Jane, thoroughly confused, tails behind. “What was that all about?” She looks down at her meager notes, dismayed. “You barely questioned him. I’ve literally got nothing.”

“I needed to look inside his wallet,” Sherlock says excitement crackling through his blood as another piece of the puzzle falls neatly into place.

“His…wallet?”

Sherlock spins her around by the shoulders, nearly doing a little jig right there on the pavement as they stride down the block. “Yes. When we first walked in the first thing I noticed about him was the tan. I needed to be sure of my theory, so I distracted him so I could look down his collar. Clear tanlines, no one wears a shirt on a sunbed. That and his arm. He kept scratching it, a possible Hep-B booster jab going by the spot of blood on his sleeve. He’s clearly a liar, then. So if it wasn’t sunbeds like he said, where was he holidaying? Surely if he recently came back he would still have some change in his wallet, ergo why I asked him for change for the cigarette machine. I’ve got patches, I’m doing good remember?”

“Yes. I thought that was strange.”

“So, when he opened his wallet, sure enough there was a twenty thousand Colombian peso note, and quite a bit of change too.”

“Why was he in Colombia?”

“That. Is the question isn’t it? Mr. Ewart is hiding something, and so is Mrs. Monkford.”

“You got all of that from his tanlines?” Jane says. “That’s brilliant.”

“It was hardly a difficult leap,” he says waving his hand in a dismissive manner even through he can’t help the pleasant glow unfurling in his chest. “We need to go to Bart’s Lab. I need to confirm something. Text Lestrade to meet us there, would you? I have a theory.”

***

 _“Colombia?”_ Lestrade says at his wit's end. “You think Ian Monkford’s in Colombia?”

“Is there something wrong with your hearing?” Sherlock says smearing a blot of the blood sample in a Petri dish. “That’s what I said.”

“You’re gonna have to give me a little more than that, Sherlock,” he says, and Sherlock represses the urge to groan in frustration. (Honestly, how do some people manage to remember to breathe on a daily basis?) He drops some of the solution in his pipette into the Petri dish, and the blood fizzes indicating the presence of a cryoprotectant. He hops off his stool.

“How much blood would you say was in Ian Monkford’s car, Inspector?”

“Uh, dunno, about a pint?”

“Not ‘about.’ A pint _exactly._ That was their first mistake. It’s been frozen, and if you check the database you will find that Monkford gave a pint recently which they clearly obtained and smeared all over the seats.” He picks up the dish. “There are ice crystals and a protective agent mixed with the red blood cells to prevent damage.” He shows the vestiges of the blood sample to Jane who nods in confirmation.

“Okay, but who would do such a thing?” Lestrade says glancing up from his pen and paper.

“Janus Cars. The rental company. The clue is in the name, right Jane?”

“The god with two faces?” she says.

“Exactly. You see, they provide a very specific service; if you’ve got any type of problem, money troubles, bad marriage, what ever — Janus Cars will get rid of it for you by helping you disappear. I’m guessing Monkford’s was financial given he was a banker, yes?”

“Yes, but —”

“But if he were to vanish with nothing but his blood all over his abandoned car, then…”

“So you think Mr. Ewart was setting Monkford up in Colombia, then?” Jane says, joining the dots.

“Exactly. That way Mrs. Monkford can cash in the life insurance and split it with Janus Cars,” Sherlock beams tucking his hands in his pockets, and rocking up on the balls of his feet.

 _“Mrs. Monkford?”_ Lestrade says, eyebrows inching towards his hairline.

“Oh yes. She’s in on it too. Now go and arrest them, Inspector. It is what you do best after all,” Sherlock smirks, he turns to Jane and hands him his phone. On the small screen is his website, The Science of Deduction. “We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved.”

“How do we do that?” Jane asks.

“We get his attention; stop the clock. I figured you would like to do the honours. Repeat after me: ‘Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Colombia.’ Send.”

Jane commences typing, and Sherlock pulls out the pink phone setting it on the worktop. Jane hits the send button and looks up at him expectantly, then over to Lestrade where they exchange worried glances.

Like clockwork the phone rings, and Sherlock answers.

“Tell us where you are.”


	4. Distance and Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane ponders on her feelings for Sherlock, and wonders if things are worth it...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rah rah chapter four! Btw thank you all for your warm wishes when I was sick. Feeling much better now! This chapter was hard, I feel like I wrung out everything I had for this. It's very introspective, and sometimes that can be difficult especially when I want so much to leap ahead. I hope you all like it, and thanks as always to you guys giving kudos and commenting!  
> xxHoney.
> 
> *Links updated!

* * *

Sherlock sits casually in Lestrade’s office looking bored already, and Jane observes him from her spot leaning against the wall. 

It was appalling, frankly, how cavalier about the whole thing he was being. Part of her wasn’t surprised, he craved the thrill of the puzzle more than anything, and with her own unhealthy attraction to danger, well she really didn’t have the right to judge. But there was something about this case that deeply unsettled her. And out of the two of them, Sherlock was pants when it came to listening to his intuition, severely lacking in that all-important self-preservation mechanism that kept sane people from jumping into pits clearly full of vipers. And here Sherlock was, harebrained and hardwired to dive in head first. Oh yeah, and then there was that thing where she realised she was in love with the madman. Not a good combination for her frayed nerves to say the least.

“She lives in Cornwall. Two men in masks broke in, forced her to drive to that car park, then decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house. They told her to phone you and had her read out the conversation on this pager,” Lestrade says chucking said device on the desk between him and Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes snap to it, and he lowers his hands from where they are pressed prayer-like to his lips to take hold of it. He inspects it, and the corner of his mouth curls up into a smirk. “And if she deviated by one word the sniper would set her off.”

“Or if you hadn’t solved the case,” Jane mumbles pressing her fingertips into her forehead just above the bridge of her nose at an attempt to stave off a headache.

“Oh how elegant,” Sherlock says.

“Elegant?” Jane says, looking ‘round to him. 

“Yeah but why would anybody do that?” Lestrade says trying to rein Sherlock back on track.

“I can’t be the only one who gets bored,” Sherlock intones, a wry smile lighting up his face. Something twists unpleasantly in Jane’s gut.

“Try to remember that a woman was nearly blown up in a public car park after being traumatised for five hours,” she says.

Sherlock’s head whips up, and he fixes her with a look, eyebrow cocked. “What for?”

Jane shakes her head at him, stunned, mouth slightly agape. She honestly has no words for that, and she clicks her jaw closed staring at a spot on the wall in determination. “Unbelievable.”

“She was just a hostage, Jane. No lead there,” Sherlock says, nonchalant as ever.

“For god’s sake I wasn’t talking about leads, Sherlock!” she says. He fixes her with a patronising look, but before she can say anything more the voice alert on the phone goes off. Sherlock leaps on it, and turns on the speaker phone and Lestrade is at the ready, someone giving a signal outside the office as they attempt to set up another trace.

The only thing they get however is a series of beeps like before, only four this time instead of five.

“Four pips,” Jane muses. The fact that it was clearly a count down causes the tang of anxiety to sharpen in her stomach.

“First test passed it would seem,” Sherlock says.

“Is that it?” Lestrade asks, a grim tension framing his mouth. He cuffs a hand through his greying hair making him look exhausted and worn thin, and Jane has a pang of sympathy for him.

“For now. No doubt he’ll be in touch,” Sherlock says getting to his feet. He slips the phone into his coat pocket.

“Wait, should you be taking that?” Jane asks.

“I can’t leave it here; it was meant for me. Who knows what will happen if the bomber calls and I’m not there to answer?” Sherlock says.

“Normally it would be against protocol,” Lestrade says and Sherlock grimaces, “but I’m inclined to agree. It’s probably safe to say some poor sod is strapped to the gills in Semtex this very moment, and the last thing we need is an excuse to set him off.”

“Excellent. We’ll be in touch. Jane,” Sherlock says stridently, and swoops out of the office.

Jane swallows the unpleasant taste in her mouth, her shoulders sagging.

“Take care, Janey,” Lestrade says squeezing her shoulder. “Make sure the lunatic doesn’t kill himself or do anything more illegal than usual.”

“All right,” she says, shrugging listlessly and heads out in search of Sherlock if he hasn’t left her behind already.

“Seriously,” Sally Donovan says as she passes by her desk. “You should think about what I said earlier. Stamp collecting, scrap booking; y’know, safe hobbies. Sure it may have been fun for a while, but now do you see what a sick twist he is? What kind of people he attracts?”

“I really didn’t ask for your opinion, Sally,” Jane says tiredly shoving her hands into her jacket pockets to conceal the tremor that was growing.

“Well I’m giving it to you regardless,” she says, suddenly hard. Jane frowns and studies her for a moment.

“Why do you even care?” she says, and Sally gets up from her chair to lean down into her space just a little too close for comfort. Jane holds her ground.

“I care because that man right there,” she glances up indicating Lestrade through one of the windows of his office, “is the best Detective Inspector I’ve had the privilege of working under, and I think he could be really great one day. Instead he relies on the misgivings of a psychopath. And as if that weren’t bad enough, now he’s got to worry about you in the process.”

“Me?”

“You didn’t see him when he found out about what happened at the tramway. Dropped everything like _that,”_ she says snapping her fingers for emphasis. “We were in the middle of an investigation, and he just handed the reins over to Thompson.”

Jane bristles, “Well I don’t see how —”

“You can be just as reckless as the Freak,” she says over her. “and between cleaning up the messes in your collective wake, and trying to manage the paperwork to cover your arses, do you think he has time to focus on what really matters? Like trying to run his own division?”

Jane raises her chin, and narrows her eyes at Sally. “That ‘freak’ puts away more criminals in NSY combined, so if it’s Greg’s _division_ you’re worried about, you might want to remove your head from your arse and have a look around because Homicide is doing quite well as far as its suspect turnover is concerned. I appreciate the fact that you seem to greatly respect my uncle, but I’m sure he wouldn’t take kindly to you questioning his methods. I agree; he is a damn fine detective, and I trust his judgment above anything, and so far he trusts Sherlock. Sherlock, who just a few weeks ago, single handedly put a stop to an attempted murder on an seven-year-old girl, because _obviously_ he’s the psychopath when her father was the one who butchered her mother and two sisters! 

“And as for me, well, maybe I am [a bit reckless,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2139757) but only because I help by-pass the miles of bureaucratic red tape the Met has to wade through before they can _do their fucking jobs_ and make the streets of London safer by taking murderers off the streets for good. So forgive me for not being sorry if I’m an _inconvenience_ to the paperwork.”

She finishes her tirade by tugging down the hem of her jacket as if straightening it, even though what she really wanted to do was hit something. Hard. Sally sputters over her indignation, fury contorting her face into something really quite ugly as she struggles between wanting to yell back at Jane and wanting to hit something herself. Before she could really form a coherent sentence, however, Jane turns on her heel and marches out of NSY.

It was a small miracle that Sherlock waited for her, but with the way her hackles were up she almost wished he had left her this time.

“You took your time,” he says absently sliding into the cab, his face plastered to his phone. She gets in and slams the door, trying to shake off the spark of irritation that so badly wanted to be fanned into a fiery rage.

“I stopped for coffee,” she says sarcastically. Sherlock arches an eyebrow, but decides not to comment. She sighs, and clenches the fingers of her left hand into a fist before uncurling it to release some of the tension. “Any word from the bomber?”

“No he’s dragging it out,” Sherlock says, absently tapping his mobile against his lips. “He knows the police are involved.”

“What?” Jane says, startled.

“He texted. Just after the voice alert,” Sherlock says. “He said he knew about Lestrade.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this?” Jane says.

“No,” Sherlock says airily. He doesn’t grin, but Jane can see the way his eyes brighten with the intrigue of knowing something no one else does. She gives him a narrow look.

“Has it occurred to you —?”

“Probably,” Sherlock cuts in.

“ _No_ has it occurred to you that the bomber is playing a game with you? The envelope, the phone, the clues…it’s all for you.”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock says, and this time he does grin. She closes her eyes willing the patience to surface.

“So why’s he doing this, then? Does he want to get caught?”

“Oh I think he wants to be distracted,” Sherlock says with a sense of commiserating empathy, and Jane clenches her jaw.

“Well…I hope you are very happy together,” she says stiffly looking out the window, inexplicably angry at the scenery flashing by with its dull blobs of Grey bleeding through her vision.

Sherlock hums distractedly for a moment, and then turns to her frowning. “Sorry…what?”

His honest confusion is what finally causes her to snap, and her head whips around to face him. “There are _lives_ at stake, Sherlock, _actual human lives!”_ she says almost, but not quite, on the verge of a shout. The effort to hold back the tempest brewing inside her is great. “Just so I know — do you care about that at all?”

Sherlock straightens in his seat, a cold mask settling over his features. “Will caring about them help save them?” he says, and she feels as if she’s been punched in the gut.

“Nope,” she says with a bitter half smile, shaking her head as the awful feeling of futility sets in.

“Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake, _Doctor,”_ he bites out acerbically.

“And you find it that easy, do you?” she says, mentally pleading for him to contradict her. 

“Yes, very. Is that news to you?” he asks.

“Bullshit,” Jane says. The vision of Sherlock’s face as he knelt to calm the little girl in the devastation of her abusive father’s wake, standing there in the midst of her own mother’s broken body in that too-white kitchen that acted like a canvas for the great swaths of blood spattered over the lino and the cupboards, swims to the forefront of her mind’s eye. Jane remembers his insistence she remain looking at him as he cupped her slight chin to hold her head steady, his litany of — _‘Keep your eyes fixed on me. Do this now, there’s a good girl.’_ — although perfunctory, held an underlying gentleness she had never seen outside of the darkness of her room. “ _Bull_ shit,” she says again. [(X)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2154545)

“Oh, I’ve disappointed you,” he says condescendingly.

“Yeah,” she says turning back to the window unable to look at him. “Good deduction, that.”

“ _Don’t_ make people into heroes, Jane. Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them,” he snaps, voice hard like the stone in her chest.

Suddenly, it was unbelievably claustrophobic.

“You know what? No. Stop the cab!” she says to the cabbie.

“Jane —?” Sherlock says, almost startled for a moment. She can’t bear to meet his eyes.

“Pull over here? That’s just fine,” Jane says as the taxi pulls up to the kerb, and she scrambles unsuccessfully for the door latch in her haste. Finally she yanks the handle, and all but vaults out of the cab. Sherlock gets out on the other side, and she faintly hears him instructing the cabbie to wait as she marches angrily away from him.

“Jane!” he says catching up to her. He grabs her wrist, and she jerks it away with a force that has her stumbling a bit.

“Don’t!” she says, her breath hitching. The tremor in her hand is as bad as it’s ever been, and she balls up her fist so tight she can feel her fingernails cutting into her palm. He backs away, hands raised in surrender.

“I’ve made you angry, and now you won’t help me,” he says flatly, that blank façade back in place, his impossible eyes dulled and shuttered. If she didn’t know him like she did, she would have missed the small fracture in his expression.

She presses her finger tips into her forehead. “Do you even need me?”

“Always,” comes his abrupt reply, and she looks up at him surprised. The fierceness of his gaze breaks through the mask unearthing that raw openness that only exists in the safety of their flat, and she feels the tightness constricting her chest loosen a fraction. She breathes out a resigned breath. “Will you get back in the taxi with me?”

She bites her lip, nerves still jangling around inside her. “Not now. I need — need to clear my head.”

Sherlock tucks his hands into his coat pockets, and inspects his shoes. “Are you coming back tonight?” The question sounds too casual to be believed.

“Yeah. Just…need some air,” she says, and he nods. She doesn’t miss the imperceptible relief uncoiling in his frame. “Let me know if you hear from the bomber.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and nods one last time almost reluctantly, and because there’s nothing left to say he and makes his way back to the idling cab. She turns her back and begins walking down the pavement, suddenly unable to watch him drive away. She hears it take off, and feels much too cold despite the mild spring weather.

If she were honest, she was more angry at herself than anything. She had just got done defending the bloody tosser to Sally Donovan, and then he proceeded to prove her exactly wrong on all accounts. And the truth was it wasn’t true at all, that cop about being a sociopath. She knew how much potential lay just under the surface of Sherlock Holmes better than anyone, and she somehow took it upon herself to try and get people to see what she saw beyond the prickly exterior. Sherlock by himself was brilliant, there was no doubting it. She had never seen anything come close to doing what he does short of a computer — never seen how someone could take in the seemingly random, inconsequential bits of data the rest of the population passed off as static and cut their way through the dross to a salient path of logic as sharp and bright as a diamond. It was amazing.

But what was even more incredible was when the pureness of his logic came together with the fierceness of his heart. Then, oh then, Sherlock Holmes was transcendent. Unstoppable. And absolutely _breathtaking._

_‘Keep your eyes fixed on me. Do this now, there’s a good girl.’_

The little girl trembled, tears pouring down her face, but able to keep herself upright with her fingers clutching the collar of Sherlock’s coat and anchored to his steady presence. Only Jane could tell how a fearsome dark fury was gathering under the calm exterior, and later he tore into the father with a clean viciousness that sucked the air out of the room, and with the evidence he all but single-handedly obtained, practically ensured the maximum punishment. And when that was all said and done, he still took it upon himself to make sure the girl was in safe hands by corroborating with the department _guardian ad litem_ that he specifically hand-picked from a list of options from social services. 

_Caring is not an advantage,_ she heard him say more than once. She wasn’t fooled for a second. 

She had never seen him burn so bright than on occasions like these.

Jane sighs again and finally looks around to where her feet had taken her, and she finds that she’s practically on the threshold of a small café. It’s an artsy one, more for the hipster twenty-something’s in Uni still, and because she has nothing better to do she goes inside and orders a coffee with entirely too much froth. She picks a table near the window and looks out onto the street, and can’t help but remember that night at Angelo’s when her entire life changed. She remembers being forced to have her back to the window as Sherlock watched for a serial killer over her shoulder, and with a pang she takes the seat facing the exit like she normally would. The chair across from her is a lonely sight.

Reaching into her inside jacket pocket she pulls out the long thin notebook she uses for notes. She flips through a few pages of her atrocious scrawl detailing what they, or rather Sherlock, gleaned from Mr. Ewart at Janus Cars, and she pauses at the word _MORIARTY??_ circled in black pen. Sure it was all fun and games to Sherlock, but Jane was constantly on edge, waiting for the penny to drop so to speak. This series of 'puzzles' were hand picked for him in some bizarre pastiche of a courting ceremony. It was disturbing.

She sighs and turns the page frowning at the sketch she had drawn earlier. It was a rough tangle of lines needing to be refined, just a sketch to pass the time and keep her hand limber, but she lingers over it now. It was a far cry from the detailed anatomy sketches she used to draw, but as she stares at it, she can’t help but see its potential.

 _It_ being the contours of graphite that made up Sherlock’s alien face and piercing eyes. 

The way she drew him was as if he was looking off somewhere in the distance, his lips parted in epiphany and his brows knitted just on the verge of melting back into that bright intensity when ever he plucked the salient details out of the air as another fact slotted into place. It was his pinnacle expression, one that never ceased to cause a warm bloom of fondness to unfurl in her chest.

She pulls out her pencil and plays around with the shading under his jaw and around that impossible cupid’s bow, the tip of the pencil dipping down to caress his philtrum almost lovingly, highlighting the nuance of that expressive mouth. She erases and sharpens the astute bridge of his patrician nose, detailing the apical tear duct that added to the overall strangeness of his arresting gaze.

She sighs and puts her pencil down when she realises she’s actively pining at this point, and part of her wants to rip the page out and just throw it away. She doesn’t, however, because: well she’s pining, and she’s at least allowed to keep this for herself, isn’t she?

She takes up the notebook and stares at it, trying to picture the iridescence of those luminous irises.

The Gold and Blue that swirled together as he swept them over crime scenes startled her one day when he fixed them on her across from their breakfast table, and all of a sudden the colours melded into a subtle Green. It wasn’t like the last time when the colour yellow came back to her, stark and abrupt like a shock of electricity, like the startling realisation of _something that was missing and is there again._

No, the soft flicker of verdigris washed over her like two points of light slicing through the gossamer Grey that still lingered in the corners of her vision. The ever shifting hue of his eyes, utterly mesmerising when they were trained on her, a beacon, a warm pulse of heat that kept time with her own beating heart.

Yes. Pining. What was she, fourteen?

Resigned, she closes the notebook, and grabs her jacket suddenly needing the crisp London air to untangle the thoughts pressing down on her like a lead weight.

She doesn't know how long she walks, but by the time she makes it back to Baker Street it’s late and her muscles ache from the crests of her shoulders all the way down to the soles of her feet. Her steps are somewhat dogged when she ascends the stairs, and the weather, while mild, hasn’t quite lost its chill from winter and all she wants is a nice cuppa and her warm bed.

The flat is quiet when she enters, and she glances down the hall. The door to Sherlock’s room is closed, and she hopes he’s actually asleep for a change even through it is highly unlikely. She’s only even known him to truly sleep on the sofa and that’s only after the exhaustion post-case forced him to. When she comes into the kitchen she sees why he’s suddenly sequestered himself to his room when she finds a row of mugs lined up on the table, all full of tea and at different stages of cooling. She recognises it for what it is: him granting her space. An apology through a forest of tea cups. Although why he couldn’t just reuse one mug was beyond her, and she sighs ruefully at the fact that it’ll most likely be her that has to wash them all. _Eight? Really?_

She takes the one on the end that still has steam curling up from its rim and takes a sip. It’s just how she likes it and for a second she’s surprised, but then remembers who she’s dealing with. For a moment she dithers in the kitchen, debating whether or not to knock on his door, but the last minute she decides against it and makes her way upstairs to her room. The distance growing between them makes her heart thud painfully, and she curls up on her side willing for sleep to come.

***

That night, Jane’s dreams are fraught with exploding IEDs that burst bright behind her eyes, blinding her until she is forced to her knees, the blood inside her veins burning hot and threatening to incinerate her. She drops her gun, and her hands scrabble along the ground, at first reminiscent of rough desert sand before melting into the dampness of a London alley. Her pulse hammers in her ears, and the roaring sound of her ragged breathing turns into the sound of howling wind as the ground suddenly opens up beneath her. And then she is falling in that endless dark chasm, arms and legs flailing and reaching out, hands grasping at nothing as the blackness swallows her whole.

Suddenly her momentum slows, and instead of hitting hard ground, she is surrounded by a familiar warm presence pulling her out of that infinite emptiness and back into the waking world. She gasps, her hands clutching silk fabric as she is shielded by long arms and broad shoulders keeping her from coming apart. Keeping the world out, and filling her with the sense of safety and home.

_[Sherlock.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2147284)_

“Did I wake you?” she asks somewhat strangled, her face buried in the crook of his neck as the tremors that wrack her frame slowly ebb out of her.

“No,” comes the soft reply, his velveteen voice soothing the raw edges of panic thrumming through her, and he tangles their legs together providing more solid points of contact to keep her grounded in the present.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” she says even though the relief she feels at his closeness makes her want to sob. In fact, she’s not entirely sure she’s not already.

When he doesn’t respond she goes to move away, but his arms tighten around her. “I don’t do this for you,” he says suddenly, keeping his voice low, and she frowns against the smoothness of his collarbone, her unspoken confusion translated through his skin made damp by her breath. She feels him swallow, jaw working silently as he figures out how to compose whatever he’s going to say next. Jane figures it helps that she can’t see him, making them both a little less vulnerable this way. Finally he takes a small breath, “Seeing you in distress is…unpleasant for me. I can’t think around it.”

Jane tenses against him, and forces herself to look up. In the pale streetlight she can see how he closes his eyes for a moment before looking into her face. “Sherlock…” she starts, and he blanches slightly before crushing her to him once more, placing the crown of her head firmly under his chin.

“Don’t. Don’t ask me that, Jane,” he says plucking the question out of her head by what was written on her face. _‘Do you want me to leave?’_

She lets out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding, the remnants of the nightmare and the past hours finally bleeding out of her. A deep weariness settles into her marrow, and she feels the lethargy wrap itself around her bit by bit pulling her down. Before she succumbs to sleep once more, she feels the urge to impress upon him the importance of how _wrong_ he was earlier when he disdained the sentiments of caring. She wished he could see how truly magnificent he was through her eyes, and all at once she realises that in all of the words in the English language, none of them even come close to describing the raw power Sherlock exudes when that distance between his head and his heart coalesce. 

“You underestimate yourself,” she whispers at last. “You are so much more than this machine you think you are.”

He inhales deeply, breathing out in a steady puff of warm air that rifles the hair on her head.

“Sleep, Jane. It’ll be better in the morning,” he says, and giving in to the lull of his voice, she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yes, and I've been asked by a friend of mine to see if there are any of you out there who are fantastic artists and can draw a picture of Sherlock in an apron from the 'Afters' chapter [Risotto](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2069198). Haha that would totes make my life, and would make an amazing gift for her.
> 
> Lol I forgot to bold a word, and so there are two 'Afters' Chapters coming up for this one, "A Bit Reckless" and "Sherlock".


	5. However Improbable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock races against the clock for the second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! I know it has been a while on this update, but here it is! And I just want to say...cyber hugs for all of you new readers who have read and commented. You know who you are, and you are awesome. I am posting this without my beta because I promised some of you I would have it up, so the chapter title is subject to change possibly.
> 
> *Link Updated!

* * *

Jane scrutinises him from over her cup of tea as they sit across from each other at the small plastic table.

“Are you feeling all right?” she asks.

“What? Yes of course, fine. Why?” he says. Jane looks pointedly down at the pink phone where his finger was tapping an incessant rhythm against the screen. He forces himself to stop, but it’s a near thing. He feels coiled tight, restless, limbs buzzing with excess energy. She raises her eyebrows and glances down at his forearm. He huffs. “I’ve only got one patch. I’m doing —”

“— good yes. I know you are,” Jane says giving a small smile to the Speedy’s waitress as she sets down a plate of food in front of her. She uncaps the brown sauce and pours it liberally over her hash browns. Before she tucks in she looks up at him with a critical eye. “Did you even sleep at all last night?”

“No,” he says shortly. (How could he when she was lying right there next to him and he was allowed to drink his fill of her as darkness pressed in all around them — isolating them from the rest of the world — where he, for once, let himself simply revel in her presence, casting aside his near constant need to _analyse,_ and merely existed in lee of her body.) He looks away. “You know I don’t sleep when I have a case,” he deflects holding the pink phone up in the chance the signal was shoddy. It wasn’t, but it gave him something to do.

She hums around a mouthful of food. “You know you’ve barely stopped since this whole thing started.”

“Preposterous.”

“You’re going to keel over if you’re not careful,” she says. 

He tosses her a look before thumbing through the settings on the phone. Maybe he could boost the signal if he —

The phone suddenly rings, and Sherlock freezes while Jane sucks in a sharp breath.

The corner of his mouth twitches up in a smirk, and he presses the answer button.

“Hello?”

 _“Are you…enjoying my little game?”_ comes a tremulous voice on the other end. Male by the sounds of it. There was also quite a bit of background noise.

“I see you’ve stolen another voice,” Sherlock says, and Jane’s eyes widen slightly.

 _“Do…you like it? This one’s…quite fit. I think…you would like him.”_ A shuddering sob here blending in with the sibilant hiss of something rushing past.

“Why don’t you talk to me yourself?” he demands.

 _“All…in good time…Sherlock.”_ The sound of a car horn blares from the other end, and the realisation crashes over Sherlock. He was somewhere public. Very public if the sounds of traffic in the background were any indication. A car park was one thing, but the side of a street? A thoroughfare? The ante was definitely upped.

“What’s that noise?”

_“The sounds…of life, Sherlock. But…don’t worry…I can…soon fix that. You solved…my last puzzle in…six hours. This time you have five.”_

“Why are you doing this?” Sherlock says.

_“I like…to watch you…dance.”_

With one last terrified gasp, the hostage rings off and the line goes dead. Sherlock pulls the phone away from his ear and scowls at it.

“How much time do we have?” Jane says biting her lip.

“Five hours,” he says and Jane curses and closes her eyes. “It’s my reward for being clever, apparently.”

The phone’s text alert pings, and he unlocks the screen. A picture of a woman with bleached blonde hair and garish maroon lipstick comes up, and Sherlock draws an utter blank.

“But that could be anybody!” he growls and throws the phone down after several seconds of scrutiny. (Surely it wasn’t this random. The bomber was a sadist, certainly, but he likened himself to a puppeteer of sorts. A conductor of some mad orchestra. He wouldn’t outright set Sherlock up for failure, would he? He wasn’t done playing yet.)

“Yeah. It could be,” Jane says picking up the phone, a smirk hovering on her lips. She looks down at her wrist watch. “Lucky for you I’ve been more than a little unemployed recently.” She gets up.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s lucky for you that me and Mrs. Hudson watch far too much daytime telly,” she says and makes her way up to the counter. She asks the proprietor for something, and he hands her the remote for the television anchored to the wall. She switches it on, and flicks through the channels until she comes across a news programme, and Sherlock holds up the phone. The picture of the woman matches the one in his hand, and Jane turns around and beams at him. The scrolling caption reads: MAKE-OVER QUEEN, CONNIE PRINCE DEAD AT 48.

A slow smile spreads across Sherlock’s face. (Oh brilliant, resplendent, Jane.) “It’s time we visited the morgue.”

***

“Connie Prince, fifty-four,” Lestrade says looking at the folder in his hands.

“Fifty-four?” Sherlock says arching an eyebrow, and following him into the post-mortem room. He shoots a glance at Jane, and she quirks her lips in a wry smile.

“Yep. Her brother found her dead in their kitchen a few days ago. They share a house over in Hampstead. She had one of those make-over shows on the telly. Did you see it?”

“Ah, no.”

“She was very popular. Going places,” Lestrade says and stops in front of the corpse on the table. He folds back the top sheet.

“Not any more,” Sherlock remarks. “So: dead two days. According to one of her staff?”

“The Prince’s houseboy,” Lestrade confirms. “He said she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound. Autopsy report says tetanus.”

Sherlock inspects the deep gash in the crook of the woman’s thumb with his pocket magnifier. “Of course. The bacteria enters the bloodstream and then it’s [Good Night, Vienna](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2176425).”

Jane leans over his shoulder. “I suppose.”

There’s a beat of silence as they all look down at the body. “Nope. It’s all wrong. Something’s off.”

“Hey?” Lestrade says, and Sherlock doesn’t even deign this with an eye-roll.

“Obviously it can’t be as simple as that or the bomber wouldn’t be directing us to it, now would he?” He moved the magnifier up to her shoulder and lingers over a few scratches (claw marks?) before tracking up to the jab marks on her forehead. “Jane? The cut on her hand was deep: would have bled a lot, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“But the cut is clean. Very clean. And fresh.” He clicks the magnifier shut. “How long would the bacteria have to have been incubating inside her?”

“Er, eight to ten days,” Jane says. Sherlock smirks and gives her a look. Her eyebrows fly up. “You think the cut was made later?”

“What like after she was dead?” Lestrade pipes.

“Must have been. The question is, though, how did the tetanus enter her blood stream?”

“You have an idea, don’t you?” Jane says, and he grins at her.

“You want to help, right? I need background on Connie Prince — family history, everything. Get me the data.”

“Got it,” Jane says and zips up her jacket. “See you back at Baker Street?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and with one last nod, she leaves.

“Sherlock, hang on,” Lestrade says. “There’s something we haven’t thought of yet.”

“Doubtful,” Sherlock says, and makes to leave. Lestrade grabs his arm.

“No, why is he doing this? If Connie Prince’s death was suspicious, why point it out? What’s in it for him?”

“Maybe he’s a good Samaritan?” Sherlock shrugs.

“Who press-gangs suicide bombers?”

“Hm. Bad Samaritan, then.”

“Sherlock. Seriously. I’m cutting you slack, here. Somewhere out there some bastard’s covered in explosives, and as much as I hate to admit it, you’re his best bet on getting him out alive. I need to know why he’s doing this; why he’s picked you.”

“I don’t know why he’s picked me, Lestrade. And dwelling on the possible reasons won’t get us anywhere.”

Lestrade’s gaze hardens. “Don’t think I won’t make good on my word to have you barred, Sherlock.”

“Yes, I think you made that clear the first dozen times you threatened me, _Inspector,”_ Sherlock sneers. “But I find it ironic that you have yet to follow through. Why is that? You said it yourself: I’m the only one who can give these hostages a chance. Now if you are quite finished with wasting my time, there is something I need to show you.”

The DI bristles and glares at Sherlock, but nods his head in assent anyway. “Lead the way.”

***

“You know,” Lestrade says staring at the collage above the sofa back at 221B, “people might get the wrong idea if they were to burst in here and see all this. Might think you were a bit obsessed.”

Sherlock smirks and he tapes another clipping of newspaper to the numerous scraps and photos that has all but taken over the wall. The one in his hand is a picture of the beauty queen herself along with her brother standing in front of their elegant faux Victorian house. The brother appears to be holding a cat: the hairless variety. (Canadian Sphynx; new pet given the collar.) Upon further observation he conceded his ministrations did rather look just a hair shy of deranged conspiracy theorist. 

“Good thing for me you’re not people,” he says dryly.

“So what’s all this?” Lestrade asks pointing to a series of blue concentric circles overlapping on a main map of London that was fixed front and centre.

“This is what I wanted to show you,” Sherlock says. “The call I received sounded like it was coming from a major area of public traffic. I’ve marked the three busiest thoroughfares in Central London as well as the West-End and cross examined them, and I’ve concluded the hostage is likely to be in Piccadilly Circus.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“It was part of the bomber’s message. He said he could end the ‘sounds of life’ soon if he wanted too.”

“But the other hostage lived in Cornwall,” Lestrade says in a bemused manner.

“Don’t bother looking for a connection, it’s random as far as I can tell. This time, however, it’s like he’s putting on a show.”

“What do you mean?” Lestrade says warily, trepidation creeping into his face.

“The woman at the car park was never in any real danger,” Sherlock says with a cavalier wave of his hand. “The only way she would have blown up is if one of your bumbling officers forced his hand by rushing in prematurely.”

“What a terrible thing to say!” Mrs. Hudson says just then, bustling into the sitting room with a carrier bag of some items Sherlock asked her to get. “Oh hello, Gregory, dear.”

“How do, Mrs. H?” Lestrade says smiling.

“Fine. Oh but this weather. I’ve got a hip, well you know. I’ll just pop on the kettle, shall I Sherlock?”

“Yes if you must, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says impatiently, but she only clucks good-naturedly and busies herself in the kitchen.

“I don’t know what your definition of danger is, but being strapped to a bomb that can level NSY to the ground sounds pretty damn serious to me,” Lestrade says gruffly.

“No, he’s playing a _game,_ Inspector. Don’t you see? The first puzzle was easy. Almost coquettish in its greeting. He knew I would get it, that’s why he’s cut the time limit for this round.”

“He what?!” Lestrade yells, head whipping around to face him. “You never mentioned that!”

“You never asked,” Sherlock rejoins.

“God dammit, Sherlock! How much time are we working with?” He cuffs a hand through his hair in agitation.

“Oh relax. He gave me five whole hours,” Sherlock sniffs.

“Yeah, two hours ago! Christ!” He pulls out his mobile. “Where did you say? Piccadilly Circus?”

“Yes, but you can’t approach him,” Sherlock says.

“I bloody know that!” Lestrade shouts.

“Language, Inspector!” Mrs. Hudson chides, and he closes his eyes briefly.

“Sorry, Mrs. H.”

“I’ll let it go this time,” she says.

Lestrade huffs and Sherlock can’t help the grin hovering in the corner of his mouth. (God bless his landlady.) Lestrade clenches his jaw.

“I just need to get a pair of eyes on him. We’re not gonna go ‘bumbling in’ like you are so apt to believe. We are competent despite what you think. But I need something more that proves the hostage is indeed at Piccadilly before I disperse my men.”

“ _I_ am the proof,” Sherlock says.

“Go on,” Lestrade says taking out his notepad.

“As I was saying, the first round was a type of getting-to-know-you present. An invitation of sorts. Since I’ve made it clear I want to play, he’s gone all-in so to speak. This time it’s for real: should I fail, the consequences are that much more devastating. He’s picked Piccadilly not only for its high traffic and tourist destination, but because of what’s lying directly under the square.” He enunciates this last bit slowly so the gravity of the situation isn’t lost on the Inspector.

Lestrade’s eyes widen horror, and he fixes Sherlock with a look of realisation. “The Underground.”

“Maximum collateral. He’s showing off, and in the process he’s made it so I couldn’t back out even if I wanted to,” Sherlock says. He snatches his laptop from the coffee table. “Send your officers there. I’m not wrong. You’re looking for a young man likely dressed a bit too warm for this mild weather, somewhere near the main intersection.” 

Lestrade nods, and gets on the phone while Sherlock opens up the email he sent to his contact from the Home Office earlier. He grins when the record of internet purchases flash in front of him from one, Raoul de Santos, houseboy. He snatches the paper clipping off the wall again and brings the photo close to his face. There in the background behind Mr. Prince is a young man. (Darker complexion, most likely Colombian given his surname. Is that the connection? No, it still seems too random…)

“It was a real shame,” Mrs. Hudson says coming into the sitting room with two mugs of tea. She hands one to Lestrade, and sets Sherlock’s down on the table knowing he’s probably not going to drink it. “I liked her. She had pretty sage advice when it came to doing your colours.”

“Colours?” Lestrade asks taking a sip.

“Oh yes, dear. I shouldn’t wear cerise because it drains me, but aubergine brings out my eyes if you match it with the right type of eyeliner.” She sweeps her hand down her purple dress for emphasis. “Basic stuff like that. I used to be an esthetician when I was a young girl.”

“Did you?” Sherlock notes with mild interest.

“Oh yes, dear. Didn’t you know? Anyway, she was a pretty girl but she messed about with herself too much. They _all_ do these days.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock says coming to stand over her shoulder.

“Well just look at her! The papers said she was forty-eight, but you can just tell that’s not true. She could hardly move her face, it was so silly! The things people do to themselves, honestly,” Mrs. Hudson says putting a hand to her cheek and tutting sadly. “Have you seen her show?”

“Not until today,” Sherlock says bringing up a web page and clicking on a video clip. The footage shows Connie as she drags out her reluctant brother who’s dressed in a hideous checkered jacket and floral tie.

“Oh that’s Kenny Prince, the poor dear,” Mrs. Hudson says, cringing at the mockery he was made into for the sake of his sister’s show. Sherlock frowns bemusedly as she slaps her brother on the backs of his shoulders, punctuation each hit with an ongoing chorus of _‘Off! Off! Off!’_ along with the members of the studio audience. (Daytime telly really was quite strange. People actually found this stuff entertaining?) “No love lost there if you believe what they say.”

“So I gather. I’ve been reading some of the fan forums from people who love the show. The gossip really is indispensable.”

“You think he’s a suspect then?” Lestrade asks.

“Hm, it had crossed my mind,” Sherlock says. Just then his phone rings, and his face lights up. “Let’s see what Jane thinks.”

_“Sherlock?”_

“Jane? Have you found something?” Sherlock says eagerly.

_“Yeah I think I’m on to something. Get here quick. You’ll need to pick up some supplies first. Have you got a pen?”_

“I’ll remember,” Sherlock says, already reaching for his coat.

***

Sherlock hefts the camera bag higher on his shoulder, trailing behind Jane as they make their way across the immaculately manicured lawn leading away from Prince’s house. Sherlock chuckles at the spring in her step and decides to let her preen for a little longer about her (admittedly clever) assumptions before he debunks them.

“You told him we were from a news column?” Sherlock says. “Very quick of you.”

“Thank you,” Jane says glancing over her shoulder. “Where did you get all of the equipment anyway? When I said ‘bring a camera’ I thought you were just going to grab a simple Kodak,” she says gesturing to the tripod dangling from Sherlock’s other shoulder.

“Mrs. Hudson.”

“Really?’

“She used to be a photographer. Didn’t you know, dear?” Sherlock says, imitating their enigmatic landlady. Jane laughs, a loud, bright laugh that makes Sherlock grin even wider.

“Why am I not surprised?” she says. “Here, let me help.” She stops walking and grabs the tripod and slings it across her back. Her eyes are bright, and her cheeks are flushed with excitement. “Well? Don’t you want to hear my theory?”

Sherlock regards her for a moment, feeling almost rueful, but ploughs on anyway. “You think it was the cat. It wasn’t the cat.”

Jane’s face falls. “What? No, yes it is. It has to be. You said yourself the tetanus got into her system another way. Its paws stink of disinfectant. I noticed it when it was crawling all over me.”

Sherlock scoffs. “It’s a lovely idea, I will admit that.”

“No, her brother obviously coated the bacteria on the cat’s feet. It was a new pet, bound to be a bit jumpy around her, and a scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn’t have —”

“I thought of it the moment I saw the scratches at the morgue,” Sherlock interrupts. “but it’s too random and clever for her oaf of a brother to piece together.”

“But…you do think he murdered his sister for her money though, right?” she asks, brow furrowing.

“Money? No. He did it for revenge.”

“Her brother wanted revenge?” she says becoming more confused by the minute. Sherlock feels his pulse quicken like it does when he’s on the verge of weaving his deductions, his blood singing in his veins as the different bits of data ignite and envelope him in their conflagration of pure logic. He sets off walking again, the heat under his collar adding to his sudden need for movement, and Jane struggles to keep up with his quick strides.

“Not the brother, no. It was the houseboy, Raoul. Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister’s jokes, day in and day out, a constant bullying campaign plastered all over the internet. Finally he snapped and had enough of it. They had a pretty bad falling out — it’s all over the fan sites — and Connie threatened to disinherit him. Well, we all know where Raoul’s… 'loyalties’ lie, and having grown quite accustomed to a certain lifestyle, he —”

“No, no wait,” Jane says stopping them once again. “What about the disinfectant? On the cat’s claws?”

“Raoul keeps a very clean house. You saw that kitchen floor when you came in; scrubbed within an inch of its life. Even you smell of disinfectant, now,” he says flicking the hair off her shoulder so her ponytail swings out behind her. She pouts. “No, the cat doesn’t come into it.”

“Then how did the bacteria enter the woman’s blood?” Jane says.

“Botox injections,” Sherlock says triumphantly. He fishes his mobile out of his pocket and pulls up the front page of his website like before.

“Hang on, _Botox?”_ Jane says putting her hand over his phone to stop him from typing. “I’m not following here, Sherlock.”

“According to my contact at the Home Office, Raoul de Santos has been purchasing bulk orders of Botox for months. On top of his other duties, he was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. You see, Botox contains botulinum toxin. He bided his time, and then one day upped the strength to a fatal dose. A second autopsy report will show that Prince died of botulism, not tetanus.”

“And you’re basing this off of what, exactly?” Jane says, her face stony. 

“It’s fact. Or it will be soon. The when is irrelevant, because I’m right! If you eliminate the impossible whatever remains, no matter how improbable, is the truth.” Jane looks unconvinced.

“These are peoples lives, Sherlock,” she says, and he nearly groans in frustration.

“I know, Jane! Despite what you may think, I am capable of recognising how extremely Not Good it would be for needless lives to be lost,” he says frostily.

Jane’s hard countenance melts a little. “You’re capable of a lot of things, Sherlock. Of that I have no doubt,” she says softly. He fixes her with an earnest gaze.

“I know it’s a gamble. But we don’t have time to wait for the second autopsy to prove me right,” he says. She looks at him, her mouth pressed into a grim line, and nods.

“Okay. What can I do?” she asks.

“Get out your phone.” Sherlock says rapidly punching the keys on his mobile as they set off down the street again. With a punctual click he posts the message onto his website that will stop the clock. “When I tell you, give Lestrade the all-clear to retrieve the hostage,” he says and brings out the pink phone. He holds his breath, a droplet of sweat rolling down the back of his neck, and waits for the bomber to ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you think I would forget about my regular readers? There are enormous cyber hugs for you guys too! :3 I love you all, and you make this possible.


	6. Sparrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all boils down to a pair of shoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are all so lovely. I wanted to post this quickly because you all deserve it. This was going to be a super long chapter, but I decided to break it into two, so hopefully the next one won't take so long. :D

* * *

Sherlock paces in Lestrade’s office tapping the pink phone feverishly against his palm, his expression fierce and only half-listening as the DI fills them in on the most recent hostage.

“The poor lad was on his way back from lecture when they jumped him. Woke up somewhere in Islington where they strapped him up and gave him instructions just like the first lady. Then they dropped him off in Piccadilly Circus. Can’t give us a description of his captors, they were all in masks same as before.” Lestrade drops the file on his desk and puts his hands on his hips.

“No, he wouldn’t have been able to observe anything of importance,” Sherlock muses. “and even if he could, it would be useless. The bomber, he’s very careful. He goes through great lengths to keep himself out of the firing line.” He stops and runs a hand over his mouth, staring at a fixed point on the wall.

Jane narrows her eyes as she looks at him — really looks at him. She wasn’t a detective by any stretch, but she prided herself when it came to her own brand of deductions. And from what she could tell, Sherlock was…off somehow.

His eyes were bright and sharp like usual when he was in his element, but the minute tremble of his fingers and the dew of sweat on his upper lip spoke of something else. To anyone else he remained as cool and collected as ever, but to Jane she could tell he was thrown off-kilter by something. It made her uneasy.

“Has he contacted you again?” Lestrade asks, an edge of scepticism to his tone.

“No,” is Sherlock’s short reply.

“If he’s doing what you said, showing off for your benefit, he’s going to raise the stakes even higher next time.”

“I am aware of that, Inspector,” Sherlock clips, eyes flashing.

Lestrade breathes out a patient breath, and places his palms flat on his desk. He looks down for a moment before he brings his head up and fixes Sherlock with an imploring look. “We’ve got absolutely zero leads on this one, Sherlock. _Why_ is he doing this?”

“If I knew I would tell you.”

“You’re the only one who can get inside this guy’s head. Are you telling me you haven’t the slightest inkling —?”

Sherlock halts his pacing and kicks the chair in front of him in frustration, his eyes snapping with indignation. 

“You know _everything_ that I know, Lestrade! Now perhaps if you were a half-way competent detective, you would be able to provide me with something useful so I can bloody well do your job for you as you seem inept to do so yourself!” he says, his voice building up to a crescendo towards the end of his tirade. He’s shaking by the time he’s done, and the two men square off across the wide desk.

“How am I supposed to know the company you’ve kept in the past, Sherlock?” Lestrade says darkly, his voiced layered with so many other meanings Jane can’t possibly parse through it all.

“The ever-growing list of my enemies is hardly news to you,” Sherlock spits. “It’s not my fault you’ve chosen to turn a blind eye to the fact. What with me being a ‘liability’ and all. The less I’m down on paper, the easier it is for you to circumvent the miles of red-tape and avoid some of the more dubious legal ramifications, am I right?”

“Bullshit. Since when have you ever cared about protocol?” Lestrade says.

“I don’t. I just find it ironic that now when it’s your neck on the line my unfettered cooperation suddenly matters. If you think this gives you an all access pass to mine the vault of my invaluable skills and tie me down as your bloody sniffer dog, then you are sorely mistaken,” Sherlock says straightening his posture. Jane doesn’t miss the way he wavers slightly where he stands. “I’m not on your payroll. In fact, I don’t even have to be here. I could waltz right out of here, conscience as clean as ever.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Lestrade hisses. “There’s a madman running around this city terrorising innocents. Doesn’t that even matter to you? For all we know someone out there could be dying!”

“There’s a hospital not far from here full of dying people, Inspector. I don’t see you crying by their bedsides. Why should some anonymous hostage concern me? It might even be in your best interest if I were to walk away. Perhaps the bomber will get bored without me around and move on to something else,” Sherlock says, his voice cold and hard. Jane closes her eyes at this and silently shakes her head.

“Don’t make me pull you in here as a suspect,” Lestrade threatens. “I don’t want to force you.”

Sherlock scoffs bitterly. “Of course you do. You’ve wanted to control me from the moment I walked in here five years ago.”

All of a sudden, Jane understands where the dissonance between them stems from, and their mine field of a relationship finally makes sense.

An uncomfortable silence resounds in the office as they continue to stare each other down in a mute battle of wills. Before either one of them can break it, however, that hateful text alert cuts through the thick tension and Sherlock unlocks the screen.

_Beep…beep…beeeep!_

Everyone waits with bated breath as the text alert pings again, and Lestrade scowls down at the photo in Sherlock’s hands. Jane comes over and cranes her neck over Sherlock’s shoulder so she could see. It was a picture of a cold fireplace against a wall with mouldy wallpaper. It was a generic representation of a typical shitty London flat, unspectacular in its own right, and she only hoped it was relevant to this clusterfuck of a case somehow.

“I’m getting real tired of this,” Lestrade grumbles, rubbing his brow in consternation. “What are we supposed to do with an estate agent’s photo?”

“Hang on,” Sherlock says, eyes flickering to and fro. “I’ve seen this place before.”

“What?” Jane asks, and he turns his intense gaze on her. From this close, Jane can see the pulse pound at the base of his throat. He looks back to the Inspector. “We’ll have to take your car. It will be faster.”

***

“You just had to have a look didn’t you, Sherlock? When you came ‘round to see your flat,” Mrs. Hudson says ushering them inside and leading them down the hall. “I’ll just pop in and get the spare.” She slips inside her flat, and Sherlock crouches down to where he’s eye-level with the standard Yale lock of 221C that matched their own.

“Someone’s opened this recently,” he says peering through his magnifier.

“What’s that, dear?”

“The lock is clean, and the dust along the seam of the door has been disturbed.” He gets to his feet.

“Can’t have been anyone. I’ve got the only key,” Mrs. Hudson says and unlocks the padlock. Sherlock takes the keys from her, completely at the end of his patience at this point, and unlocks the remaining two. “I can’t get anyone interested in this flat. It’s the mould I expect. That’s the trouble with basements.”

Sherlock just grunts and hands her the keys before sweeping inside followed by Lestrade. Jane sighs and gives her a rueful smile, “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Not to worry, love. I’ll just put the kettle on and you just drop by for tea later if you’re able. And make sure Sherlock eats something. He’s looking a bit peaky,” she titters, and pats Jane on the arm.

“Will do,” Jane says, and ducks likewise into the flat.

“Shoes,” Lestrade says as she comes around the corner. Sherlock pulls on his gloves and crouches down almost on his stomach next to a pair of white trainers poised in the centre of the empty sitting room just in front of the fireplace. He reaches out a hand.

“Remember! He’s a bomber,” Jane says fiddling nervously with the hem of her leather jacket. For this position she doesn’t have to see Sherlock’s face to know he’s rolling his eyes at her.

However, he still proceeds with caution, and jumps just as much as the rest of them when the pink phone suddenly rings from his pocket. He groans and gets back to his feet, putting the phone on speaker.

“Hello?” Sherlock says.

 _“Sorry…”_ the voice on the other end says, fear pertinent in her voice. _“This one’s…a bit…defective. She’s blind…”_

“Targeting nursing homes, are we?” Sherlock says, and the old woman on the line sobs.

_“Close call…last time. But I knew…you wouldn’t…let me down. You’ll…like this one…it’s especially…for you.”_

“Why me?” Sherlock responds, and Lestrade’s brows come together, his expression thunderous.

_“This is…all about you…and me, Sherlock…We are…cut…from the same…cloth…two sides…of the same…coin. I’ll give you…twelve hours. Boom…boom…”_

The line goes dead, and Sherlock grits his teeth. “Damn.”

“Twelve hours,” Jane says. “That’s something, at least.”

“Jane. Always the optimist,” Sherlock says dryly and rubs his temples. “Connection, connection…there has to be a connection.”

“You said there was none. Said it was random,” Lestrade says.

“Yes, I know what I said!” Sherlock snipes. “But obviously there is one now. He’s not just random, he’s been planning this for a while so there’s a connection but it has nothing to do with the hostages. Woman from Cornwall; man from London; old lady from Yorkshire based on her accent; envelope from the Czech Republic what is he doing? Working his way around the world? No, it has everything to do with those shoes.”

He picks them up from the floor and inspects them.

“I’ll need to admit them as evidence,” Lestrade says.

“Yes, and then you will to release them to me where I can do tests on them at Bart’s.”

“Sherlock…”

“Lestrade, let’s skip the part where you tell me it’s against procedure and get to where you go ahead and do it anyway. We _only_ have twelve hours, after all.”

Lestrade glares at him before huffing a breath out of his nose. “Bloody tosser. They’ll be waiting for you at Bart’s, but not a moment sooner,” he says and pulls an evidence bag out of his jacket pocket. Sherlock nods, and without further protest slips them into the bag for Lestrade to seal. “Have Molly help you.”

“I don’t need Molly’s help,” Sherlock says derisively. 

“No, but she’s the only one who will document everything properly so I want her in there. I’m not budging on this one,” Lestrade says, and Sherlock grimaces.

“Yes, all right, now get on with it!” he says and shoos him away. Lestrade shakes his head and with one last glance at Jane makes his way out of the flat, trainers in tow.

Sherlock stands in the centre of the room for a few moments, staring at the spot on the floor where they were just sitting, eyes glassy and deep in thought.

“Sherlock?” Jane says quietly.

“I’m missing something, Jane,” he whispers. “The bomber knows me somehow.”

“What like he’s a person from your past like Lestrade said?”

“I…” he falters, squeezing his eyes shut briefly. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve deleted a lot of memories from those days…”

At this, Jane frowns slightly. “You mean from…?”

“There was a time where I made enemies of a different caliber,” he says, and drags his eyes up to meet hers almost furtively. Jane purses her lips, because she knows that no matter what she says at this point it will sound like judgment or pity to his ears, and that’s the last thing he needs and the last thing she wants to bestow.

So, instead she smiles a little and says, “C’mon. I’ll make us some tea and you can try to explain to me that ‘Beautiful Mind’ atrocity you have plastered to Mrs. Hudson’s wall.”

“You always think the answer is tea,” Sherlock grumbles but she doesn’t miss how he straightens slightly, a bit more confidence returning to his posture, and she leads the way back up to their flat.

When the kettle’s boiled, Jane heads out to the sitting room and watches while Sherlock affixes pushpins to the various locations of the hostages for good measure. His mobile chimes, and he scowls at it before tossing it back on the coffee table and takes the cuppa from Jane.

“Who was that?” Jane asks.

“No one important,” Sherlock says taking a sip. As if to prove a point, the text alert goes off a second time. Jane huffs and plucks it up off the table.

“It’s your brother,” she says eyeing the text enquiring about Andrew West.

“Delete it.”

“Delete it?”

“Missile plans are out of the country by now, nothing we can do about it,” he says succinctly.

“Well Mycroft thinks there is. He’s texted you…eight times. Must be important.”

“Then why didn’t he cancel his dental appointment?”

“Sorry?”

“Mycroft never texts if he is given the opportunity to hear his own voice. Look, Andrew West stole the plans, tried to sell them, and got his head smashed in for his trouble, end of story.”

“Right,” Jane says.

Her mobile pings from her pocket, and she frowns.

_[number blocked] — 12:30 PM_  
 _Any developments on the Bruce Partington Plans?_  
 _Mycroft Holmes_

“You’re brother’s texting _me_ now,” she says, and Sherlock groans and flops down on the sofa.

“Insufferable prat.”

“How does he know my number anyway?”

“Must be a root canal,” Sherlock says idly and steeples his fingers under his chin.

“Look, he did say ‘national importance.’ Don’t you think you should maybe look into it a bit more?” she says, and sits on the edge of the cushions by his hip so he’s forced to look at her. 

“How quaint,” he says, the corner of his lip curling up.

“What is?”

“You are. All Queen and country,” he scoffs.

“You can’t just ignore it, Sherlock,” she says. He raises a patronising eyebrow.

“I’m not. I’m putting someone on it straight away, if you must know.”

“Oh…Good. Who’s that?” Sherlock doesn’t say anything he only smirks pointedly at her, and she groans as the realisation dawns. “God dammit, Sherlock. At least let me finish my tea.”

***

Forty-five minutes later, Jane finds herself sitting in Mycroft’s stately and obnoxiously symmetrical office. 

The large authoritative desk was front and centre and was bracketed by two identical book cases, the covers of the books arranged by height (naturally), the non-descript tomes with gold lettering on the spines are likely monographs on British Law and politics. Behind her was a small bar with identical table lamps on each end, and on the wall there were two framed photos of Parliament, and the Tower of London. It was stuffy and oppressive just like the elder Holmes, and she almost laughs at the fact when she compares it with 221B and it’s eclectic, bohemian vibe. Each dwelling was a study in the brothers themselves, and just before she can draft a blog post in her head about it (a Study in Holmes, ha ha) the door swings open and in walks the British Government himself.

Followed by his constant companion, Ben, which was a lovely surprise. Mycroft wasn’t kidding about keeping the Irish Setter in the office, apparently.

“Jane, how nice. I was hoping you wouldn’t be long,” Mycroft says without looking up from the file in his hands as he crosses to his desk. Jane gets to her feet just as Ben trots happily over, head butting her knees in greeting, and Jane scratches him between the ears. “What can I do for you?”

“Sherlock sent me to collect more facts about the plans,” Jane says taking a seat again. “Er, the stolen missile plans.”

“Did he?” Mycroft says glancing over his shoulder with a condescending curve of his mouth.

“Yep. He’s investigating it now. Just, er, investigating away,” Jane says lamely, and Ben rests his chin on her knee. He gives her a look that he wasn’t buying it either, and Jane huffs a breath out of her mouth making her fringe fly up in exasperation. “Um, I just wondered what else can you tell me about the dead man?”

“Ah yes,” Mycroft says finally turning around to face her, leaning casually against the edge of the desk. “Mr. West; twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross — MI6. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Programme in a minor capacity. Security checks a-okay; no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies. Last seen Wednesday evening around ten-thirty by his fiancée.”

“Right, okay so he was found at Battersea, yes? Got on the train and then —”

“No,” Mycroft says with a sly smirk. “He had an Oyster Card, but it hadn’t been used.”

“Must have bought a ticket, then?” Jane says, and Mycroft smiles wider before grimacing and touching a hand to his jaw. Jane shakes her head a little. Of course Sherlock would deduce correctly about the root canal. The brilliant git.

“There was no ticket on the body,” Mycroft finally says taking a small sip of water.

“Then…?”

“Then how did he end up on the tracks at Battersea with a bashed in head? That is the question of the hour, and I had hoped it would be one Sherlock could answer. How is he getting on, by the way?”

“He’s fine,” Jane says absently, scrawling some notes down in her notebook.

“No really,” Mycroft levels, and Jane glances up. He gives her a knowing look. “How is he?”

“H-he’s all right. It’s going…well. Yep. He’s completely focussed on the…it,” Jane fumbles.

Mycroft arches a disbelieving eyebrow. “Keep an eye on him, won’t you? He tends to underestimate his limits as well as we both know.”

Before Jane can answer, her text alert chimes.

_Mr. Science Man — 1:32 PM_  
 _Meet me at Bart’s._  
 _SH_

“That’ll be him,” Jane says.

“Of course,” Mycroft says showing her to the door. “Do think about what I said, Doctor Watson.”

She nods, and with one last pat to Benedict’s head, she makes her way out and in search of a taxi.

***

Jane sits in the cab, practically drowning in the mire of her thoughts. There was something about this case that dug at her, filled her with insidious dread. 

It was the fact that this _something_ was beginning to affect Sherlock. Sherlock who always rose above it all and remained a stoic, objective vector of fact and logic. 

But now for the first time he was targeted. Personally. And it was getting to him.

It was obvious in the dark circles under his eyes that were more reminiscent of bruises these days, and the faint nervous tremor in his wrists that had nothing to do with caffeine or narcotics for a change. He would deny it outright of course, but Jane could see it. 

The bomber, whoever he was, knew about Sherlock and his limitations. Knew that he gave himself entirely to the pursuit of a greater thrill, hop-scotching from one puzzle to the next, sometimes at the detriment of his own health. Was that the objective? To run Sherlock into the ground with puzzle after puzzle until he was forcibly removed from the picture? It seemed rather likely, and the theory makes her breathing catch. She wondered if Sherlock even considered this possibility, and when the cab pulls up to Bart’s she takes off at a jog, overwhelmed with the urge to talk to him.

Her mobile chimes just as she reaches the lift, and she opens her inbox.

_[unknown number] — 1:53 PM_  
 _hello little sparrow. joining the dots?_

Jane’s eyes grow wide when she reads the cryptic message. A cold prickling sensation makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up, and she has the irrational urge to look behind her even though she knows it’s just her in the lift. She takes a steady breath, her mind racing.

This had to be the bomber. Of course it did. If he knew so much about Sherlock, then he obviously knew about her. This was definitely a game changer, and she brings up Greg’s number. 

Before she can call him, however, the text alert goes off again. She inhales sharply and opens the new message.

_[unknown number] — 1:54 PM_  
 _it’s okay that you’ve gone to the police, but they can’t help you. and if you care about loverboy as well as the hostages, you’ll keep quiet. you don’t want to know what happens to naughty songbirds._

Jane clenches her jaw, suddenly furious. She hits reply.

_Sent — 1:54 PM_  
 _what do you want from me?_

The response is immediate.

_[unknown number] — 1:54 PM_  
 _i want you to remember who it is you’re dealing with. i want you to stay out of his way. this is your only warning._

The lift doors ding open, signaling her arrival to the lab, and she stands stock still letting them close again as she regains her composure. 

She looks down at her phone and before she can change her mind, deletes the messages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun daaaa!
> 
> Lol as always thanks to my amazing beta!


	7. Silence and Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do two people bridge the gap they've created?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMASSSSS! Because I love you all so much and I wish all of you glad tiding of yule tide glee, and stuff, here is the next chapter with the link in 'Afters' immediately updated. Yay back to backsies!

* * *

The monitor flashes as permutation after permutation gets discarded on the screen, and Sherlock drags his fingers through his lank curls. He picks up his coffee cup for the third (fourth?) time only to slam it down again when he realises it’s empty, and has been for quite some time now. He scratches the back of his neck in agitation, digging his fingernails into flesh to physically restrain himself from texting Jane. He needed her _here_. She was his conductor of light; a beacon in the darkness. He scowls at the trainers sitting on the worktop, and pulls on a pair of latex gloves.

He picks up the right one and scrutinises it from the laces (skin flakes present; condition – eczema?) to the soles (mud; two different types of clay and silt present) and goes over anything he missed.

Or tries to. He keeps getting stuck in a horrid feedback loop of tracing the stitching with his eyes over and over even though it has nothing of relevance to contribute. His frustration finally boils over when he lingers on the blue stripes on the tongue for the fourth time, and he slams it down on the table top with a wordless growl.

“Bad day?” Molly says cheerfully as she rounds the corner from the mortuary. He doesn’t deign to respond to this, and instead peers back into the microscope. She shifts awkwardly on her feet. “Right…I’ll just go get those reports, then.”

She leaves through the double doors opening them just a hair too wide, making the un-oiled hinges whine in protest. The screech of the metal reverberates around in his skull like shards of glass, and his presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

In his mind’s eye, it was almost as if he was staring at a wall filled with hundreds of computer screens of information — all scrolling with useless encrypted data, the shrill buzz of static adding to the chaos tattooing the inside of his skull — with absolutely no way of turning them off. 

He’s felt this feeling before, and he swallows thickly.

Burn Out.

“Shit,” he murmurs, and brings his palms to press like a vice on either side of his head. This was perhaps the most inconvenient in the history of inconvenient timing for his brain to go haywire. He just had to stave off the inevitable collapse until he at least finished with this latest puzzle and then he would deal with the consequences later.

Ignoring the swell of nausea and the repulsive ringing in his ears, Sherlock takes a deep breath, and turns his attention back to the screen.

His coffee cup suddenly catches his eye. More specifically the steam rising incongruously from the rim, and he picks it up. It’s fresh. Odd. (Molly must have — when did she —? He didn’t even _notice_ —) (Oh hell.) He closes his eyes at the realisation.

He was losing time, and he had to hurry.

The metal door opens with another tortured shriek making his very skin crawl as the terrible noise rakes itself over his eardrums.

He wipes the sweat off the back of his neck, and looks up to find Jane trying to shut the door more quietly behind her. She manages to muffle it slightly.

“Jane,” he says, unable to keep the relief out of his voice. His relief fades, however, when he notices the flicker of distress flash across her face, and he narrows his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Hm? Nothing!” she says, the preoccupied look vanishing instantly, and Sherlock can’t be sure it was even there to begin with. 

Before he can question her either way, however, the monitor blurts and the word MATCH flashes across the screen.

 _“Ah!”_ Sherlock exclaims.

“Any luck?” Molly Hooper says banging back into the room, setting Sherlock’s teeth on edge.

“Yes,” he says tersely, and motions for Jane to come closer. “It’s the pollen in the mud samples. As good as any map reference once you know where it came from.”

“Sorry, pollen?” Jane says.

Before Sherlock can explain, that hateful door swings open again and he jolts with the shock of the squealing hinges, slamming his eyes shut.

“Sorry to interrupt…”

“Jim? Hi!” Molly says brightly, if not a tad bewildered. (She’s most likely got that doughy look on her face, she fancies him and they’ve already been on two…no three dates by the sounds of it.) Sherlock’s eyes flash open, and he fixes the young man before him with a disdainful glare.

“I hope I’m not imposing,” he says though a giddy grin. (Oh look, they even blush the same. How twee.) Sherlock grits his teeth, and tries to focus on something other than the glaring lights, and the clammy heat under his collar.

“No, come in! Come in!” Molly says, and Sherlock has to physically tamp down his irritation by digging his fingers into his thigh. “Jim this is Sherlock Holmes, and his…friend Doctor Jane Watson.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jane says, polite as ever.

“So you’re Sherlock Holmes?” Jim says in awe as he takes a few steps towards him. “Molly’s told me all about you. She goes on and on, really.”

“Well…not on and on…it’s more of a – a just an office thing. Water cooler, banter. You know,” Molly stammers. “Jim works upstairs in IT. That’s how we met. Office romance.”

(Oh god. Of all the idiotic —)

“Gay,” Sherlock says rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

“What?” Molly says crestfallen. 

Jane pokes him sharply in the side, and he straightens in his seat. “Hm? Oh, just…hey,” he says with a false smile in Jim’s direction as the idiot continues to make it way around, examining the racks of test tubes, and the small Newton’s Cradle sitting on the work top.

Jim brightens at the acknowledgement. “So are you on one of your cases?” he says poking the uppers of one of the shoes. “Where are the laces on this one?”

“I would prefer it if you didn’t touch that,” Sherlock snaps, and snatches the shoe away. “Delicate business. Forensics,” he emphasises with a click of his teeth.

“Right, of course!” Jim says with wide eyes, and steps hastily back. He knocks over a metal dish in the process, and fumbles with trying to pick it up, nattering his clumsy apologies all the while. He finally manages the simple task, and giggling nervously, makes his way back over to Molly. He rubs her back affectionately. “I better be going, but I’ll see you at the Fox around six-ish?”

“Y-yeah,” Molly says, her smile wavering. “Sounds good.”

“Bye,” Jims says. He turns towards Sherlock. “It was great meeting you.”

Sherlock sniffs and types in a few meaningless coordinates into the computer. (Honestly. Take a bloody hint.)

Jane clears her throat. “Ah, yep. Good to have met you too.”

Sherlock pauses minutely as the door wails in protest once more, before bouncing back to his microscope. He idly twists the focus, not even really paying attention to the slide.

Finally after another beat of awkward, fuming silence Molly breaks it. “What do you mean ‘gay’? We’re together.”

“Yes. And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You’ve put on three pounds since I last saw you.”

She clenches her jaw. “Two and a half.”

“Give or take,” Sherlock says, and Jane sighs from beside him. He ignores it. He’s beyond caring about the trivialities of _Good_ and _Not Good_ at this point especially when the ambient hiss of static inside his head it beginning to reach its peak. He gnashes his teeth at the tinny ring in his ears.

“He’s not gay! Why do you have to spoil — he’s _not,”_ she says, trembling with anger.

“With that level of personal grooming? Please,” he scoffs.

“Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?” Jane says and he turns to her in surprise. (He takes a moment to observe her, and how the slight shift in her tone and stance brings out the defender in her; the benevolent guardian. Avenging Angel. It’s something that never fails to arrest him.) “ _You_ put product in your hair.”

“I wash my hair, there’s a difference," he says derisively, "No, no — tinted eyelashes; taurine cream around the frown lines; tired clubber’s eyes — and then there’s the underwear.”

 _“Underwear?”_ Molly says, scandalised.

“Obvious. Visible above the waistline; a very particular brand. And if that wasn’t enough to be getting on with, there is also the extremely suggestive fact that he left me his number under this here dish. So really, Molly, you’d best break if off now and save yourself the time and the pain,” Sherlock says, punctuating his point by slapping the mobile number onto the worktop.

Molly snaps her mouth shut, tears welling in her eyes and whips around, a sob catching in her throat as she flees.

“Charming. Well done,” Jane says flatly as the door slams.

“I’m just saving her time. Isn’t that kinder?” he snaps.

“No, Sherlock. _That_ wasn’t kind,” she says and follows after Molly, shooting a disparaging look at him over her shoulder before she leaves the lab. 

Sherlock watches her go, suddenly gripped with the insane urge to run after her. He wanted to catch her and pin her to the wall like some sort of butterfly so she wouldn’t ever leave, because he obviously needed her _here_ if he was ever going to solve anything ever again, apparently. 

He pauses. Even he could recognise that this was definitely _Bit Not Good Indeed._

Sherlock shoves his notes away from him and surges to his feet in aggravation. He paces erratically back and forth tugging a fist full of his hair to release some of the tension binding his back and shoulders as the vitriol of exhaustion (when _was_ the last time he slept?) and the potency of his anger (mostly at himself) seep into his nerves. 

This whole god damn case was a disaster, and nothing was sparking properly in his mind, especially now that he’d gone and shoved away his only fixed point amid the tempest in his head. 

And now it was all he could bloody well think of, (Jane, Jane, _Jane_ ) and how much he had grown to depend on her. It was ridiculous. He functioned just fine on his own for the past thirty-three years of his life, for crying out loud. 

(Well…fine was a broad term.)

(He functioned decently without her.)

(No, that wasn’t right either.)

(Functioned?) (Yeah, barely.)

(Fuck all.)

He reaches for his coffee more for something to do with his nervous energy than out of desire to drink it, and in his haste sloshes the boiling liquid over his hand.

He curses avidly, dropping the paper cup to where it splatters all over the floor. He runs to the sink and twists on the cool water guiding his hand gingerly under the stream. His skin was already turning an angry red, and would probably blister later.

The door to the lab opens once more, and the grinding of the hinges practically sounds like a blood curdling scream at this point, his nerves flayed beyond his usually austere control, and he flinches violently. His eyes screw shut as his brain tries to parse through the hurricane of sensation around him, and for the moment he’s actually grateful of the pain in his hand, the sharp sting cutting through the fog slowly descending over him.

So focussed is he on not succumbing to the dark chaos in his head, he doesn’t even register Jane calling his name until she places a gentle hand on his shoulder. He inhales sharply trying to compose himself.

“Sherlock?” Jane says again. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he says lowering his head. His hand shakes as he holds it under the stream. “Spilt my coffee.”

Jane sighs, and moves over to one of the cabinets opening a few before she finds what she’s looking for.

“Let me see,” she says, and Sherlock shuts off the tap. The fierce bite of the burn settles in immediately away from the cool water, and he clenches his fist automatically. “Don’t do that,” she reprimands, and he relaxes his fingers.

Sherlock looks up at her as she gently takes his hand and clicking her teeth in exasperation as she inspects the abused flesh. She palpates it lightly causing him to hiss in pain. She darts a disapproving look at him from under her lashes, before dabbing it lightly with a towel. She tears open a small packet of ointment, and squeezes some of the viscous cream onto her middle finger, and massages it into the skin on the back of his hand. The ointment has a cooling effect to it, and combined with Jane’s ministrations, Sherlock’s eyes close of their own volition.

“You owe Molly an [apology,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2214804) by the way,” she says softly. She tears open another package, and Sherlock opens his eyes as she fixes a bit of gauze around his wrist, crisscrossing over and under his palm. She ties it off in the crook of his thumb.

“Do I?” he muses, transfixed on her fingers lingering on the underside of his wrist as she continues to hold his hand.

“You know you do,” she sighs, and with one last tentative brush of her thumb, steps away.

“I’ll get her a coffee,” he says dismissively.

“No. You are going to get her a banoffee pie. It’s her favourite,” she says firmly.

He narrows his eyes at her. “Jane Watson, I will _make_ Molly a banoffee pie if we can please get back to the case.”

Jane snorts. “I’ll hold you to that,” she says and follows him back to the work bench.

Sherlock sits back on the stool, and slides one of the shoes towards her. “There you are. You know what I do, off you go.”

“Hah, oh no. I’m not going to stand here so you can humiliate me too,” she says bluntly.

“An outside eye is very important to me,” he says, having to swallow around the suddenly cotton-y state of his mouth.

“Yeah right.”

“Really,” he says and she tosses him a disbelieving look. “Please,” he says at a loss for anything else to say. (How could he explain to her the intense laser-like focus she brought to the work?) He takes a breath. “You aren’t the most luminous of people —”

“Ta. Thanks for that —”

“— but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable,” he finishes stridently.

“I…oh,” Jane says the wind deflating from her surly sails. She regards him curiously.

“Go on,” Sherlock says and holds the shoe up for her. She eyes it, sceptical still, but takes it and turns it over in her hands.

“Well they’re just a pair of sh — trainers,” she says.

“Yes. Good,” Sherlock says watching as her bright eyes track over the soles.

“Um. They’re in good nick. I’d say pretty new but…the soles are worn down so the owner must have had them for a while. Er, they’re very eighties. Probably one of those retro designs.”

“You’re on sparkling form, what else?” he says pulling up a web page on his mobile. (Well loved, true. Well taken care of.)

“They’re quite big, so I’d say a man’s…”

“But…?”

“But there’s ink on the tag inside from a name. Adults don’t write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid.”

“Excellent. What else?”

“…That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah. How did I do?” she asks. Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “Oh don’t give me that look, go on then, Mr. Clever.”

He chuckles as she shoves the shoe into his hands. “The owner loved these, scrubbed them clean when they got dirty, whitened them when they became discoloured, changed the laces three — no four times. Even so there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers came in contact with them, meaning he probably suffered from a skin condition. Shoes are well worn, more so on the inside which suggests he had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old.”

“Hang on…twenty years?” Jane says.

“They’re not retro,” Sherlock says, and holds up his mobile so she can see the picture of the shoes. “they’re original. Limited edition, two blue stripes: nineteen eighty-nine.”

“But…” Jane says picking up the shoe again. She picks at a dried patch of dirt near the toe, “they look brand new. There’s still mud on them and everything.”

“Someone’s kept them this way,” he says moving over to the monitor and pulling up the map reference, “Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles; analysis shows it’s from Sussex with London mud overlaying it according to the pollen in the soil. They’re not retro, they’re original.”

“Yes you…you said that already,” Jane says, and scrutinises him.

Sherlock averts his eyes, and fiddles with the zoom on the screen. “Did I?”

“Yes.” A beat of silence and then, “Sherlock are you —?”

“The point is,” Sherlock says over her, “the kid who owned these came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind.”

“So what happened to him?” Jane says after a moment.

“Something bad,” Sherlock says. “Remember, he _loved_ those shoes, he wouldn’t let them get filthy and he wouldn’t leave them behind unless he had to. So: a child with big feet gets…” he trails off, the salient points of light sparking suddenly into existence. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Carl Powers,” he whispers.

“Who?”

“ _Carl Powers,_ Jane.” Sherlock gets up from the stool suddenly restless and walks a few paces away. With his back turned he brings his shaking bandaged hand to cover his eyes for a moment trying to hold the seams of his logic together as he struggled to make this final piece fit somewhere amid everything else.

“Who is Carl Powers?” Jane says coming towards him. 

He can feel her standing behind him, her concern radiating off of her like a furnace. He swallows hard as the ground under his feet suddenly sways, and he presses his palm against the wall in front of him.

“It’s where I began,” he says.

* * *

Jane watches Sherlock from her place next to him in the cab. Aside from barking at the cabbie to take them to New Scotland Yard he had been silent, his face pale and drawn and arms tightly crossed over his chest in an attempt to hide the subtle tremor that had picked up in both of his hands.

A car horn blares as it drives past making Sherlock flinch, and Jane can’t take it anymore and pries one of his hands away so she could clutch it. He tenses at first, not able to meet her eyes, but then he sighs and tangles their fingers together more securely.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jane says after a while.

“Not important.”

“Sherlock. You’re practically on the verge of falling over. When was the last time you slept?”

Sherlock makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. “Does it really matter when there’s a crazy bomber running around London?”

“ _Sherlock._ When?”

“Belarus.”

“You are a massive idiot,” she says. He chuckles but breaks off in a groan, his other hand coming up to shield his eyes. “Let me see, love.”

Sherlock drags his hand away, and pries open his eyes so she could take a look. Just as she suspected, the left pupil was blown wide while the right remained relatively normal.

“What’s my diagnosis, Doctor?” Sherlock says trying for humour, closing his eyes again.

“You need to sleep.”

“Can’t. I sleep and the old lady dies.”

Jane bites her lip. “What can I do? I want to help.”

“I need to find the connection between Carl Powers and the bomber,” Sherlock says leaning his head back against the leather seat. He clutches her hand even tighter, rubbing his thumb almost feverishly against the crook of hers.

“Do you have a theory?” Jane prods knowing that getting him to talk aloud sometimes helped him draw his conclusions faster.

Sherlock grimaces, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Nineteen eighty-nine, a young kid — champion swimmer — came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament…drowned in the pool. Tragic accident. You wouldn’t remember, why would you? Accidents like these happen all the time and nobody looks twice.”

“But you did?”

“Yes. Something wasn’t right about the whole thing. I read it in the papers. The boy, Carl Powers, had some type of fit in the water and by the time they got him out it was too late and he drowned. But there was something fishy about the whole thing, something I couldn’t get out of my head. It was his shoes.”

“ _The_ shoes?”

“Yeah. They weren’t there. He’d left all of his clothes in his locker but there was no sign of his shoes. I tried to get the police involved, but they wouldn’t listen. I was just a kid myself at the time, and as you may have noticed I have been known to be quite difficult on occasion. I made a fuss, and they threw me out. Case closed. His shoes never turned up, though. Until now.”

“You started young didn’t you?” Jane says, and Sherlock looks at her, a sly smile playing on his lips. She frowns, however, something niggling at the back of her mind. “So how did the bomber get the shoes then?”

“Carl Powers’s murderer obviously kept them as some sort of trophy all these years. Given the facts,” he states carefully, “I am inclined to believe that the bomber and Powers’s murderer are the same person.”

Jane inhales sharply, an icy fear sliding down her spine. This, whatever _this_ was — the dark musings of a twisted obsessive fanatic — had been years in the making. The fact that someone had been essentially keeping tabs on Sherlock for over a decade was highly unsettling, and made her nauseous. This kind of patience — of meticulous planning something like this would have had to have taken was insanely terrifying and left her feeling helpless until she could hardly trust the solidarity of the earth beneath her feet. She felt as if she were standing in the midst of a surreal reality where everything degenerated and nothing made sense, melting clocks and everything. It reminded her of the futility of her dreams, especially the ones as of late that left her useless and sinking in quick sand while the one person she wanted to protect most was torn away from her. 

The fact that she was questioning her nightmares against the reality of her _actual_ life was overwhelming in its own right. 

“Jane?” Sherlock says, pulling her out of her thoughts. She jumps lightly before turning to him. “Are you…all right?”

“Yes. Fine,” she says a bit too fast. The image of the threatening text messages comes to her mind, and she pushes them away while trying to give him a casual smile.

Sherlock continues to search her face before being forced to close his eyes again. He bows his chin towards his chest and lets out a harsh breath that sounds a little like a sob at the end. “You’re lying but I – I can’t…see. There’s too much — too many screens and I don’t—”

“Hush, love,” Jane says and pulls him in so he could bury his face into the welcome darkness of her shoulder. “I promise. Everything’s all right. You trust me don’t you?”

“I do,” Sherlock says barely above a whisper.

“Then listen to me. You just need to focus on this case so we can go home, okay?” she says.

Sherlock doesn’t answer at first, and he remains stiff against her seemingly afraid to move, but after a moment he all but melts against her side. He wraps an arm around the back of her waist, drawing comfort and seeking closeness, and ashamedly Jane soaks it up like a parched man in the desert.

“The distance,” he finally says, “it’s not good.”

“What’s that?” Jane says.

“Between us,” he murmurs taking a deep breath through his nose and releasing it slowly.

“I…” Jane starts, and her pulse picks up. She wanted to hope, oh she really did, but Sherlock wasn’t thinking clearly. “You’re not yourself right now, Sherlock,” she says trying to swallow back the sudden tightness in her throat.

At this he lifts his head so he could look at her. He still manages to look condescending even through his grimace of pain. 

“Do not tell me what I am or am not,” he says with a conviction that takes her by surprise. “I am still capable of logic regardless of the ridiculous notions my transport deems to inflict upon me.”

“But…you said we couldn’t,” she falters. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Since when has danger ever stopped you, Doctor Watson?” he says, lips twitching into one of his pure honest smiles. She tries to smile back, but the insidious text messages she received in that elevator prickle the back of her neck in a cold reminder. Some things were just too important. Some people.

“We can’t Sherlock,” she says at last, heart sinking to the bottom of the cab. Sherlock’s face falls, and he pulls away hands coming to grip the edge of the seat as he is forced once again to squeeze his eyes shut against the torment in his head. It feels as if she’s dying as the draught his absence leaves behind seeps into her.

“I…yes. You’re right. Forgive me,” he replies, and it takes everything in her not to drag him back into her arms and retract everything she just said. 

She tucks her hands under her thighs, and tries to keep her chest from breaking open.

The silence is like drowning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this one isn't so warm and fuzzy, but this chapter was getting way to long and so I broke it up. The next one will be better, and will have some reconciliation! :D


	8. Misdirection and Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trickiest thing is the distance between the head and the heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Hopefully this was a speedy enough update for you guys! Super mega thanks to my beta who got back to me lickity-split.
> 
> Thanks as always to all of you who have kept up with me, and to all of you new readers, even the nonnies whom I have not had the pleasure to meet. You are all awesome, and your kudo and comments make my day.
> 
> *Links in Afters updated!

* * *

“There _are_ no case files on Carl Powers, freak. I’ve been trying to tell you!” Sally Donovan shouts. “His death was ruled as an _accident_ according to the post mortem report.”

“Yes, and the report is wrong,” Sherlock snarls. “Look up the files corresponding to his case —”

“There wasn’t a case!” 

“Look them up, _Sally,”_ he says through gritted teeth, eyes livid and intense. “There’s an investigation inquiry surrounding the so called ‘accident’ that will help prove my point if only you would do your job and _find_ it.”

“An inquiry? How do you know there’s an inquiry?” she says apparently having honed in on said document. She squints at the screen of her computer suspiciously.

“Because,” Sherlock clips. “I’m the one who filed it.”

 _“You?_ That’s impossible,” Sally says, and clicks a few things on her screen. “This case is twenty years old.”

“Look,” Sherlock says pinching the bridge of his nose. Jane eyes him warily as he sways on his feet. “I don’t — _we_ don’t have time for this. _Where_ is Lestrade?”

“He’s busy,” Sally sneers. 

Sherlock breathes out through his nose, trying to summon patience. Which was a feat if Jane was actually the one wearing thin faster than him in this instance.

“Then we’ll wait for him in his office,” Jane interjects. “And you might want to have those files for us before he gets in because I really don’t want to have to tell him the reason why a hostage died was because a member of his team was impeding the investigation due to some misguided prejudice against the case’s lead consulting detective.”

“I beg your pardon? He’s the _only_ consulting detective,” Sally says, incredulous.

“Exactly. Come on, Sherlock,” Jane says and doesn’t wait to see if he’s following before she heads off in the direction of the DI’s office. Still fuming, she makes her way to the coffee pot on the small counter, and flicks it on. “Decaf, I should think,” she mutters to herself.

Sherlock closes the door, and comes up to stand next to her. “You sounded like you rather enjoyed that.”

“Enjoyed what?”

“Giving Donovan what for,” he says, and she can hear the smirk in his voice. She represses a grin of her own.

“Well, she deserved it didn’t she?”

“Mm,” Sherlock says, and she looks at him. He looks haggard, face gaunt and pale and lips chapped from licking them subconsciously. But his gaze is soft, and his smiles a small, weary smile.

“When was the last time you ate anything?” she says quietly. He frowns trying to remember, and she shakes her head in exasperation. “If you tell me Belarus I _will_ kill you.”

“I think I had a few bites of Mrs. Hudson’s roast a few days ago,” he says.

“Why do you do these things to yourself?” she says, and he shirks off her concern with a shrug. “No, I’m serious. Why?”

“I told you, Jane. Everything else is just transport. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” she says in a small voice. He scans her face, but his gaze doesn’t linger as he is forced to squeeze his eyes shut. She goes over to the pair of plastic chairs sitting in front of Lestrade’s desk, and she shifts them so they are facing each other. “Sit,” she commands, and takes her own seat.

He regards her sceptically before rising to his full imperious height, and sits across from her. She scoots her chair forwards some more until their knees are all but pressing together, and brings up her hands. She hesitates only a moment before burying them into the tangled insanity which is his hair, and begins to gently massage his scalp. His eyes close immediately, and he lets out an involuntary groan of appreciation, head bowing low between his shoulders as he leans into her [caress.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2249016)

“What’s it like when it gets like this?” she asks after a while.

“It’s like I can’t shut my mind off,” he says a little sluggishly. “Like everything gets rewired, and the data gets corrupted. Sometimes noise hurts, and I smell phantom odours that cause my nose to burn. Picture a hard drive that overheats itself from running too long, and you have my brain.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You really are a walking absurdity,” she says fondly. He grunts at this, but says nothing.

Jane continues her soothing strokes, and he can’t help but lean in further and further until his forehead is resting on her shoulder. Jane stops with the massage, and instead drapes her arms over his back and shoulders and just lets him breathe against her as his limbs loosen, and he gradually becomes heavy with relaxation. She rubs her knuckles up and down his back letting him succumb to the sleep he so desperately needed. She knew he wouldn’t approve of this given they were in the middle of a case, but she just couldn’t bring herself to disturb him. The fact that Sherlock trusted her to even allow himself to fall [asleep in her arms](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2303928) was astonishing in of itself. 

His words come back to her just then: 

_‘The distance, it’s not good. Between us.’_

It was curious in the way that he said it, as if it were fact; the quintessence of the way Sherlock went about everything, even matters of the heart. 

Did he honestly think that way? Or was it just the exhaustion talking? _That was probably the reason,_ she thinks. His over heated processors or whatever. Sherlock was a singular person, and he prided himself on his autonomy. Surely, _surely_ this incredible man, cold and remote like starlight, wouldn’t need her of all people. Sherlock didn’t need anyone.

Then again, he _was_ currently snoring softly in her arms. The last couple of times this happened, he still had the coherency to lock himself away to ride out his vulnerable state in solitude. And he as good as told her not to underestimate his logic even in this state of coup his ‘transport’ was throwing at him. 

Why did everything have to be so complicated? Why couldn’t she just… _have_ this?

She presses her lips against the crown of his head and breathes in, seeking her own comfort as her head and her heart warred against her. He smelled like sweat and something woodsy she couldn’t identify, but it calmed her all the same. If these were the only moments she could get, she would take every one of them and be content. 

“Jane?” comes Lestrade’s soft baritone, and she opens her eyes. She didn’t even hear him come in. “He all right?”

“Burn out,” she whispers, and he walks over to his desk. He hitches a hip against the edge and leans against it, flipping through a file in his hands. “Is that the inquiry for Carl Powers he was looking for?”

“Yep,” Lestrade says looking up from under his brows.

“I’ll wake him in a moment,” Jane says.

“You know I wouldn’t ask you to if I didn’t need him,” Lestrade intones.

“You sure don’t act like he’s doing you any favours,” Jane can’t help but say. Lestrade tilts his head, puzzled. “Look I get that you and he don’t get on, but you need to stop treating him like a criminal.”

He frowns, “I don’t —”

“Yeah you do. This whole bloody department does,” she murmurs. Sherlock shifts just then and lets out a low groan.

“Jane?” he mumbles, and pulls himself back to sit properly in his chair, eyes still tightly closed.

“I’m here, love,” she says, and he nods in acknowledgment. He pries open his eyes and looks at Lestrade, then back to her.

“If you lot are going to talk about me you could at least have the decency to do it in the other room like proper gossipers,” he says dryly. “Is that my file?”

“Yes,” Lestrade says and hands it to him. “So what does this boy have to do with our crackpot bomber?”

“Nineteen eighty-nine, drowned in the pool at a local swim tournament. Murdered; no one thought so except me. Now the murderer has conveniently turned up as our ‘crackpot’ bomber as you so eloquently put.”

“How in the hell did you put that together?” Lestrade says incredulously and possibly a tiny bit impressed.

“One day when we have more time I will explain it to you,” Sherlock grumbles, and thumbs through the dossier. “Here: Powers was enrolled at Ardingly.”

“A prep school? What does that have to do with anything?” Lestrade says.

“Think about it. Who would ever want to murder a young boy?”

“I dunno,” Lestrade says, but pulls out his notebook nonetheless. “Who?”

“A classmate. Most likely a classmate that was constantly antagonised by Carl. It makes sense; a strapping lad on the swim team, popular no doubt, surrounded by potential and attention. According to this it says he only lived with his mother. The lack of a father figure, and you have the perfect formula for a bully.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch, Sherlock,” Lestrade says. “There’s no proof he was even murdered.”

Just then Sherlock’s mobile rings, and the corner of his mouth crooks up into a sly smile. He pulls it out of his pocket, and answers it.

“Hello, Molly. You’ve found something?” He pauses here, listening intently, before shooting straight up from the chair. “You’re sure? Fax the findings to the Metropolitan Homicide Department.” He exclaims in triumph after ringing off, and shakes his phone at Lestrade. “We have proof now, Inspector! Molly tested the laces of one of the shoes for me, and there were trace amounts of the poison _Clostridium Botulinum._ The same poison that killed Connie Prince. Botox is only a diluted version of botulinum after all. The bomber’s repeated himself, don’t you see we’re one up on him!”

“Wait, Sherlock. How could he have poisoned him?” Jane says as he makes his way over to Lestrade’s computer.

“The boy suffered from eczema. It would have been easy to introduce it into his skin cream. The tox report I had Molly fax should contain remnants of where the medication, as well as the poison, came in contact with his fingers. You could even determine the brand of ointment if you wished. So: he applies it, two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns. Quite simple really.”

“If you’re right —” Lestrade starts.

“Of course I’m right.”

“ _If_ you’re right, then why didn’t it show up on the autopsy?”

“Remember Connie Prince? We needed a _second_ autopsy to find the botulism. It’s virtually undetectable especially if no one is looking for it.” He types something rapidly on Lestrade's computer, and Jane manoeuvres over and sees he’s brought up his web page. Lestrade nods succinctly, and gets on the phone to bark orders at someone to deliver the records, double time. “It’s time to stop the clock,” Sherlock says and types in the phrase:

_FOUND: Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989) — Botulinum toxin still present. Please apply._

He looks up at her beaming, eyes shimmering and panting lightly and hits the enter key without looking. His smile fades after a second, however, and a small frown replacing his triumphant grin. “Jane?”

“Yes,” she says.

“I feel like I’m on fire,” he says shaking his head, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before opening again. “I’m not, though, am I?”

If he didn’t look so pathetic, she would have laughed at this. Instead she brushes the sweaty curls off his forehead. “No, you’re not. You’ve just got a bit of a temperature. Just a bit longer, and then we’ll go home.”

“Mmpf, all right,” Sherlock says and leans his head back against the back rest. A moment later, Sally Donovan bursts into the office and hands a set of papers over to the DI. Her eyes linger over Sherlock with grudging acknowledgment, and Jane can’t help but smirk when she catches her eye.

“I’ll be damned,” Lestrade mutters flipping through the pages. “This all checks out. Donovan: I need you to round up everything on this Powers kid, specifically information on that school of his. We are looking for an acquaintance that possibly had a grudge against him. The bomber and the murderer of this young lad are the same person, and I need you to get this new info over to our analysts so they can add it to their suspect profile.”

“Got it,” Donovan says, and swiftly leaves the room.

However, she’s only gone for a second before coming back a few moments later with a phone in her hand. “Sir?”

“What is it, Sergeant?” Lestrade says distractedly, still reading over the reports.

“It a phone call. For him,” she says, and indicates Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s eyes fasten onto her immediately, and he sits up straight in his chair. She looks to the DI for instruction, and Lestrade pulls out a recording device from his desk.

“We need to set up a trace,” he says lowly.

“Already taken the liberty, Sir,” Donovan says.

“Good,” he says and gestures to her, and she hands the phone to Sherlock. On Lestrade’s mark he puts the unfamiliar mobile on speaker just as the DI begins recording.

“Hello?” Sherlock says.

 _“Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers,”_ comes a flat affected voice distorted slightly by something as if the man was talking into a tin can. There was something else too, an accent of some sort. Irish? 

“Is this you?” Sherlock says.

_“As close as. I recall you requesting to speak to me directly, and I do love to please.”_

“Why did you kill Carl Powers?”

 _“Why does anybody do anything? I was bored. You should know all about that. We were made for each other, you and I,”_ the voice teases.

Sherlock presses his fingertips into his forehead, and Jane can see a trickle of sweat trace his jaw line. “Cut the act. Why did you really do it?”

There’s a beat of silence before the sound of a bitter chuckle. _“Can’t get anything past you, can I? The truth is I never liked Carl. He laughed at me, so I stopped his laughing, easy peasy.”_ He emphasises the last by switching to a dull American accent.

“And no one would have suspected a thing if it weren’t for those shoes, am I right?” Sherlock goads.

 _“Wrong. No one would have suspected if it weren’t for_ you, _my dear. Don’t you just love how adorably simple-minded everyone else is?”_

Sherlock, at the end of his rope, clenches his jaw. “Where is the old woman? You haven’t killed her, have you?”

_“Oh no. Killing her would accomplish nothing.”_

“Then where is she? That’s how this works isn’t it? I solve your puzzles and you let the hostages live?”

 _“Don’t think for one minute you have a handle on me, Sherlock,”_ the voice says almost coquettishly. _“because the moment you do, everything will go up in smoke.”_

“The _hostage,”_ Sherlock demands.

 _“Don't worry. There will be no mistaking where she is, my good detective,”_ the voice replies cryptically before ringing off.

An eerie silence reigns in the office, and Sherlock slowly gets to his feet, his face slightly ashen. Jane can see the gears turning as he pieces things together, and his expression is decidedly not good, and a chill runs up her spine.

“Inspector…” he starts, eyes growing wide.

Before he can finish his thought, however, another detective comes banging through the door.

“Inspector Lestrade!”

“Thompkins?” Lestrade says on full alert. The phones in the bull pen are ringing off the hook behind him.

“There’s been reports of an explosion in Charing Cross.”

“Shit, where?” he says as more officers come into the office.

“Some industrial plant,” Thompkins says.

“Inspector!” Sherlock says, his deep voice cutting through the melee. “The old woman won’t be there. Chances are he blew up a vacant warehouse.”

Lestrade regards him, his brows coming together. “What do you mean?”

“I think you’ll find that the trace was successful,” Sherlock says nodding to a portly man bustling through the door moments later. He’s obviously a tech, and he has a paper clutched tightly in his meaty fist.

“We patched him!” the tech says, out of breath. “The trace is coming from a suburb in Slough.”

“Bloody Slough?” Lestrade says turning back to Sherlock.

“That’s where you will find the hostage,” Sherlock says. He grips the edge of the wooden desk in front of him. “He would never have let you trace him unless he wanted it. He’s too clever for that. The explosion is just to prove how dangerous he is.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Positive. Like you said earlier, I’m the only one who can get inside the bomber’s head,” Sherlock says, eyes like steel.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Lestrade nods, and without anything further he whips around and starts barking orders at his team. They file out of his office, and Sherlock makes to follow suit. “Ah, no you don’t,” Lestrade says stopping him, a firm hand splayed on his chest.

“But —”

“You need to go home and get some rest. You’re no good to me like this,” Lestrade says. Jane comes up behind him and tugs his wrist in silent agreement.

Sherlock shoots her a reproachful look, but then concedes the point under her determined glare. He sighs. “You will tell me if —?”

“ _Yes._ Now get out of here,” Lestrade says, and with that follows his team.

Sherlock watches them go, fists clenching at his sides, and lets out a groan of frustration. “This is ridiculous,” he murmurs under his breath.

“What was that?” Jane asks. Before Sherlock can say anything, however, he lists sideways. “Woah!” she says, and grabs his arm to steady him.

“I solved it, Jane,” Sherlock says, and Jane drapes his arm over her shoulders. “but he still blew up the warehouse. He’s changing the rules to his own game.”

“What does that mean for us?” Jane says as they shuffle out of the office. 

“It means he’s unpredictable; dangerous. He’s never put himself in the firing line before today, and I’m not sure why,” Sherlock says and closes his eyes letting Jane guide him out of NSY. He’s flagging fast, and it’s a struggle to keep both of them upright.

When they finally make it out onto the street, Jane tries to hail a cab but with the way Sherlock is leaning against her, none will stop for them.

“I’d wager they all assume I’m inebriated,” Sherlock says.

“I’d wager you’d be right,” Jane says, and they set off down the block at a slow pace.

“Hell,” Sherlock grumbles after a few minutes, and he lets out a frustrated sigh coming to a halt.

“What is it?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says and gestures behind them. Jane looks over her shoulder and sure enough, a black saloon is rolling up to the kerb. “Meddling bastard.”

“Sometimes his meddling has its uses. Come on,” Jane says and aims them in the direction of the car just as the driver gets out.

“Mr. Holmes sent for a car, and it appears you are in need of one,” the driver says with a smug smirk.

“You can tell my overblown arse of a _brother_ he can —”

“Yes! Thank you,” Jane says and all but pushes Sherlock towards the open door. “Get in, you. I do not want to walk all the way back to Baker Street.”

“Fine,” he moans, and slides into the car with all the air of a long suffering dignitary. She gets in next to him, and he immediately pulls her into his side.

“Hey,” she chuckles. “All right, love?”

“Yes. It’s just my head,” he says, and settles in with his head on her shoulder. She revels in his closeness, and his hair tickling her chin. “Why do you do that?” he says after a moment when the car pulls out into traffic.

“Do what, love?” she murmurs idly playing with the cuff of his coat.

“That. You only call me love when I’m like this. I meant to ask you last time but it never came up. Why do you do that?” he asks in a bemused voice.

“I…” Jane starts, and Sherlock looks up at her. She blushes. “I started doing it the first time this happened. You get confused sometimes, and I noticed that you didn’t so much if you knew it was me. It just happened and, I dunno, it kind of stuck.” Sherlock hums at this and tucks his head back under her chin. “Does it bother you?”

“I’ve already said it didn’t, did I not?”

“Yeah but you weren’t —”

“We’ve been over this, Jane. Just because I get a few wires crossed from time to time doesn’t mean my logic deteriorates. Or my memory for that matter. If it bothered me I would have told you.”

“Oh…right,” Jane says for lack of anything better to say, and she lets this fact sink in for the second time.

She had assumed that when he was out of sorts, he wasn’t fully responsible for the things he said and did. He insisted she was wrong, and if that was the case then this rare vulnerable closeness he exhibited was profoundly warranted, and even actively sought after. Her heart does that fluttering kicking sensation again, and she feels as if she was at an impossible crossroads with herself. She closes her eyes briefly at her conflicting emotions. Suddenly all of the meaningless touches and lingering looks they’ve cultivated over the course of their entire friendship meant so much more in hindsight. In his own indirect way, Sherlock was trying to tell her that he wanted her yes, but more importantly that he needed her just as much as she needed him, and the revelation is absolutely earth shattering. It's almost as if all the lights in the dark room she had suspended herself in were turned on simultaneously, and she lets out an involuntary gasp.

“Sherlock?” she says, the words catching in her throat. Her mind is racing, and suddenly she feels extremely ill-prepared for this conversation she was attempting to start.

He doesn’t answer, however, and she realises he’s sound asleep. She breathes out a relieved breath, and clutches him just a little tighter.

“Miss? We’re here,” the driver says cutting through her reverie.

“Actually, can you keep driving for a little while?” she says, and the driver nods in the rearview mirror, and pulls away from the kerb again. She settles back in her seat, and tucks Sherlock’s coat more snugly about him as London passes by, unchanged as always, and somehow completely new and for the first time, brimming with something like promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurrah! Some how they keep ending up in taxis curled up together. Hopefully its cute enough to not be annoying in its redundancy. Ahem. I have a thing for the London Cab, and I just can't help it. :D


	9. Have, Need, Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane and Sherlock have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Holy cow, talk about the new series of Sherlock, right? I just have to say I really looked forward to discussing it with some of you, and I am always open for conversations! This is open to all of you, and seeing as how I was like, 'Hey I have a Tumblr!' then proceeded to FREAKING NEVER GET ON TUMBLR (cuz I'm lame) I figured I should welcome all of you to drop by with an email if you would like to talk and get to know me or whatevs. The email I use is on my profile page! 
> 
> Anyways, this chapter is a little longer because I wanted to get. things. accomplished. (Finally.) SO, I hope this is everything you guys hoped for, and lets just hope our doctor and our detective can figure it out already. ;)
> 
> xxHoney.

* * *

_The sound of a bell somewhere in the distance, and…something else? Water? Yes, that’s what it was. The tide steadily rolling in and out…in and out…_

Sherlock slowly rises to the surface of his consciousness a little foggy, but a great deal sharper than he was previously. He’s also warm and content, and the last thing he wants to do is open his eyes. So he doesn’t. He luxuriates in the feel of the eiderdown pressing around him on all sides like a chrysalis, and the familiar softness pillowed against his cheek. The tide comes in again then trails out in a soft whisper, and the angelic bell-like crystal chimes softly once more on the blurred edges of his waking mind. He breathes deep.

The smell of (talcum powder, cheap detergent, fresh cotton, and, oh!) apple blossoms fills his nose, and something like recognition sparks as his brain fully comes online.

_Jane._

He opens his eyes, and sees that they are both in Jane’s bed slotted together like puzzle pieces, his head resting on her chest and his arm draped possessively over her waist. He realises that the sound of the tide he was hearing was actually her steady breathing, and he props himself up a bit. He can tell by the light of early dawn that she is still fast asleep, an arm flung artlessly over her head, and the fingers of her other hand loosely threaded through his hair. He doesn’t remember how they got to her room, nor does he really care. He’s never felt so rested in his life.

He lays his head back down, reveling in her warmth.

This, right here, is pure; is _right._ He’s never felt more certain about anything than he does about waking up next to Jane Watson.

The simple fact that he _feels_ for anybody let alone Jane is an epiphany. He didn’t even think something like this could happen to him, much less that he actually wanted (craved more like) the presence of another human being.

In all honesty, he should be quite concerned. Mycroft would lecture him, no doubt. But he wasn’t fazed in the slightest. In fact, the feeling blooming in space between his ribs was a halcyon sort of feeling.

Peace, he realises.

That word was apt, wasn’t it? Being near Jane gave him _peace._ For once, everything in him coalesced to a smooth working order, and the cold bite of lethargy and tedium was carried out to sea on the crest of an inhalation; in between the beats of a heart. _Her_ heart.

She was the pillar inside him, a stalwart presence, and at times the strength that held him upright. She was invaluable.

She made him feel invincible, and he knew she felt it too.

But there was still an unease that clung her, lying in the shadows in her eyes, and the way she poised her self as of late. He recognised the yearning in her gaze and the way her touches lingered perhaps longer than necessary, but yet she was careful and withdrawn despite herself. He could tell there was something deeply troubling her; holding back the torrent she so desperately wanted to unleash. He just didn’t know what.

Reluctantly, he pulls away careful not to jostle her, and lies on his side so he could observe her. She sighs gently in her sleep, but she doesn’t wake, her brow smooth for once in the absence of nightmares.

He rolls onto his back, breath huffing out of him. He was missing something. He always was.

He tucks a hand under the pillow behind his head, and his fingers brush something hard. It’s a book of some kind, and he grips a corner and pulls it out from its hiding place. He sees that it’s the small notebook Jane usually carries around with her, and his thumb brushes over the spine thoughtfully. It was obviously private if it was secreted away like this, and his fingers dance over the front, itching to open it.

It was definitely bad form to rifle through her diary, but on the other hand, he really wanted to know what was inside.

He was terrible at impulse control anyway, and without a second thought props himself against the headboard and flips open the cover.

The first few pages were nothing spectacular. Just case notes that Jane had taken to jotting down as she followed after him on their numerous forays after the nefarious criminals of London. When he first noticed her doing this, he scoffed and belittled her. As if he couldn’t remember the details himself. It was laughable. She only smirked when he goaded her, however, and the joke ended up being on him when he realised what exactly it was she was doing with her notes. (‘A Study in Pink’ was still an awful title, regardless of how flattering it may have been.) (Not that he would admit it was flattering. Ever.)

He continues to flip through growing bored at her neat lists and running commentary. It was all pretty straight forward, really.

He’s about to close it and put it back under the pillow when he comes across a page with the title: _NAMES FOR THE COLOUR GREEN_

It wasn’t a very long entry, and on the surface quite mundane, but the incongruous nature of this list was what gave him pause. He scans it again.

_celadon, verdigris, jade, clover, emerald, mint, honeydew, cameo, sage, light harlequin, laurel, mantis, malachite, paris, persian…_

The list trails off here, a cluster of ink dots in the corner of the page where Jane tapped the tip of her pen in thought. Sherlock narrows his eyes, but for the life of him can’t figure out the purpose for this. Maybe it didn’t have a purpose. Maybe it was just —

He comes up short when he turns the next page.

_SHERLOCK HOLMES_

_Knowledge of literature — nil_  
 _e.g. Charles Dickens murderer._  
 _Stumped for four days because he couldn’t recognise Oliver Twist._  
 _Knowledge of philosophy — nil_  
 _Knowledge of astronomy — nil_  
 _e.g. “I must have deleted it.” “But it’s the Solar system!”_

Sherlock can’t help but smirk at this as he remembers the conversation. His eyes track down the page where the list continues to detail his eccentricities in her precise hand, her comments written in a tone of exasperated fondness he could practically hear the very nuance of. It was a familiar tone, and one he never grew tired of. He glances at her as she hums contentedly in her sleep, shifting lightly.

He turns the page and has to repress a startled gasp.

There staring back at him, was a portrait of himself caught in the middle of a penultimate revelation rendered in his exact likeness with just a few lines of graphite. It was incredible. He had no idea that Jane could draw, and the fact that she chose to draw _him_ of all things was profound. (Wasn’t it? Yes it was. Why though?)

His eyes drink in the image, trying to come up with the logical answer to the equation that was presented to him. Nothing salient immediately leaps out, and after a few moments he pushes aside his calculations. It was clear this wasn’t meant to be deduced, so he simply let himself look. And wonder.

Was this really how she saw him? So dark, so…untouchable? He traces a line, and smudges some of the lead in the process. He’s almost afraid to see if there is anything more, but he turns the page anyway.

It’s another drawing of him, but curiously, this one is only of his eyes. He tilts his head, and reads the single sentence on the page.

_Aegean green, like the colour of the sea…_

It was impossibly…well he supposed the correct word was impossible. He flips back to the previous page and reassess the drawing of himself.

He got it wrong. Jane didn’t draw him as this sacrosanct, distant figure he had first assumed. No, the way she depicted him was…what word would she use? What word was so typically Jane?

 _Beautiful._ That’s what it was. He looked beautiful in her eyes.

Instead of the angular cheekbones and audacious chin he normally saw in the mirror, here was this enigmatic person clearly in the throes of passion, and this was the Sherlock Jane chose to capture. This — he — was _her Sherlock._

She possessed him just as much as he possessed her.

His heart pounding, he closes the notebook and slips it back under the pillow.

“Jane?” he whispers. She stirs lightly and he leans over her so he could brush a strand of hair from her face.

“Hm?” she says, eyes still closed. “Case?”

“No,” Sherlock says grinning at her sleep addled state.

“Mmpf. _Why?_ Sleep,” she says in broken mumbled sentences, and she blindly reaches out towards him. She latches onto his shirt front, and drags herself to him, nestling into his side. He chuckles lowly and wraps his arms around her, drawing her close. “S’nice. Sleep, now.”

He smiles into her hair as she tucks in under his chin and tumbles back into slumber. It’s quiet, the sun slowly chasing the shadows across the bed, and despite the fact there was still a case that needed his attention, he feels himself succumbing to the lull of their synchronised breathing. He blinks heavily a few times before finally letting his eyes slide shut.

He’s just on the threshold of sleep when that insistent bell cuts through the stillness once more, and he pries his eyes open.

Not a bell. A text alert.

He feels around for the source of the noise, and finds the infernal device on Jane’s vacated side of the bed. He presses the button illuminating the screen on her mobile and sees that she has three new messages all from an unknown number.

He hesitates for only a second before opening the first one. After all what was one more breach in privacy at this point? He squints against the glare.

The first one is a single word, and he frowns when he reads it.

_[unknown number] — 4:38 AM_  
 _Sparrow._

He flicks to the next one.

_[unknown number] — 4:45 AM_  
 _just this once, go against singing with the dawn._

Okay now they were not only cryptic, but immensely irritating. Sherlock scowls and he opens the most recent one.

_[unknown number] — 5:29 AM_  
 _remember what I said about playing nice. i am a man of my word._

The thread of worry that was niggling at the base of his spine rears its ugly head as it is suddenly replaced with the vulgar notes of panic and the blossom of quiet rage. This last message confirms his suspicions: Jane was being threatened. Upon further inspection, Sherlock realises that she was being threatened and she didn’t want him to know about it.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Jane?” he whispers, as he tries to track down any other insidious messages lurking in her inbox. Any further evidence has all been deleted, of course. (Stupid, stubborn woman…)

He gently disentangles himself from their embrace, trying his hardest not to rouse her. She turns over in her sleep, but otherwise doesn’t wake. His look lingers far longer than it probably should until, berating himself, he tears his gaze away and makes his way down stairs.

As quick as he can, he grabs his things, not bothering to change his rumpled slept-in clothes, and leaves the flat.

***

It’s barely six in the morning when Sherlock barges into the Diogenes Club heedless of the dirty looks he receives as he makes his way across the lounge, hard shoes tapping loudly against the floor in his wake. He doesn’t bother to wait for an escort, and he shoves open the door to his brother’s private study.

“You’re feeling better I see,” Mycroft says not even deigning to look up from what he was writing down. Sherlock glares at him harder to try to get a rise out of the man. All he receives for his trouble is a lethargic wave of his hand. “Close the door would you?” 

Sherlock spins around and slides the doors shut with a clattering bang that finally has Mycroft glancing in his direction. He goes to give a disapproving remark, but he stops as his sharp eyes sweep over Sherlock in his customary fashion. He sets down his fountain pen and gets smoothly to his feet. “Some would say that it’s too early for a brandy, but what do they know?”

He heads over to the small bar against the wall and pours some of the amber liquid out of a crystal decanter into two tumblers. He gestures to the two wingback chairs angled towards each other in the middle of the room. Sherlock sits in one stiffly, and takes the glass offered to him with cold fingers. He downs it before Mycroft even takes his own seat.

“What seems to be troubling you, Brother Dear?” Mycroft says resting an ankle atop his knee.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock clips. “I need you to make him a priority. This case I am working on for the Met, I have reason to believe he is involved somehow.” Mycroft arches a surprised eyebrow. “Oh don’t look at me like that. I know you’ve been keeping tabs on him. Just because he hasn’t done anything note-worthy as of late doesn’t mean he should be pushed to your proverbial back-burner.”

Mycroft smirks taking a delicate sip of his liquor. “Should you really be lecturing me on ‘proverbial back-burners’, Sherlock? How’s the Andrew West case coming along?”

Sherlock grits his teeth, and his eyes dart away. (Damn him.) “I thought you were above twisting my arm, Mycroft?”

“What ever gave you that impression?” he grins.

“Stop this trivial sparring,” Sherlock says fixing Mycroft with an ardent expression. Mycroft adjusts his position, and switches ankles.

“This is about Jane,” he says making Sherlock clench his jaw tighter. “I will have to say, Sherlock. You’re slipping.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock warns.

“When are you going to get this out of your system?” Mycroft says, banter aside. “Doctor Watson was a novelty at the start, but now she is becoming a _distraction.”_

“You’re correct. She is a distraction. A far less chemical one,” Sherlock says emphasising the last three words. “Can’t pay the rent without her so it’s in my best interest not to drive her away. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“You can’t just trade one drug for another,” he levels, cutting through the deflection like silk. Rage boils through Sherlock’s veins at the implication.

“What ever works, right?” is all Sherlock says. “Results are the only thing that matters regardless of the outcome. You taught me that.”

“Jane Watson is a _person,_ Sherlock. Surely the fact hasn’t deserted you?”

“Oh don’t pretend you care!” he spits, patience dissolving.

“Wrong again, I’m afraid,” Mycroft sighs, and gives him an almost pitying look. “I care because she is quickly becoming a weakness for you, and given the position I am in, I cannot let this happen.”

Sherlock’s eyes flash with hatred. He leans back in his chair, a bitter huff of realisation leaving him. “I see. You can’t let Jane get to me, because if she gets to _me_ then it’s just one more stepping stone to _you._ Is that how it works, _Brother Mine?”_

“Caring is not —”

“Shut up,” Sherlock snarls. “You talk and talk but you never say anything.”

“So you keep reminding me,” Mycroft drawls and pushes himself out of his chair. Sherlock tracks him as he moves back to his desk and pulls out a tablet. He presses a few things on the screen, and strides over, dropping the device soundly in Sherlock’s lap.

“What’s this?” Sherlock says eyeing the web page that was front and centre. “Jane’s blog…?”

“See for yourself,” Mycroft says and situates himself back in the chair. Sherlock scowls, and looks down.

A new blog entry has been minted with yesterday’s time stamp. Which was odd, seeing as how they’ve barely had any time breathe much less anything as tedious as this. He clicks on the hyperlinked title that says _‘Hello My Dear.’_

A video has been embedded, and a nauseating feeling of dread settles in his gut. He taps the play button and watches the clip unfold with abject horror.

The camera is trained on Carl Powers’s shoes sitting in the middle of 221C. They blur slightly as the focus is adjusted, and then the camera is lifted from its position on the floor and swept around as if taking stock of the room with its peeling wallpaper and grimy windows. A line of text appears on the screen superimposed over the image. It reads:

_Tut, tut. Mrs. Hudson will never let this flat out with all the mould._

Sherlock finds it’s suddenly difficult to swallow. He watches as the camera is carried up the steps and through the corridor lingering on the door to 221A. More text scrolls across the screen.

_I smell apple pie. Bless._

The camera continues its journey up the seventeen stairs and into 221B where the door swings open with ease. (They really needed to start locking it from now on.)

_What hideous wallpaper._

the words on the screen inform him.

_And what’s the deal with the skulls?_

The image lingers on the absurd poster near the door that was a present from Molly once upon a time, before heading to the cow skull on the wall over the desk.

_You put headphones on the poor thing? Can’t bear your terrible violin, perhaps?_

A pale hand reaches out and snatches up a loose page of hand-written sheet music. Sherlock recognises it as one of his compositions. The page is folded and whipped out of sight, possibly into a pocket. He feels oddly violated at the fact.

_Until next time, Sherlock Holmes._

And then blackness. 

Silence reigns in the office like some palpable, smothering thing pressing down on him.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock finally grinds out. Red is tearing at the edges of his vision as fury threatens to blot out that detached logic he had always come to rely on.

“Yes,” Mycroft states.

“This is Moriarty. It has to be,” he says.

“I agree. Unfortunately, you have managed to rid your flat of its usual preventative surveillance measures so I was not able to glean a good image of the man. He was also very aware of the street cameras, and took steps to avoid them. However, you can be assured that this is currently my highest priority.” Sherlock looks at him blankly for a second. “So you see? You came all the way down here for nothing.”

“You might have started with that,” Sherlock grumbles.

“Oh but it’s ever so nice chatting with you, Sherlock,” Mycroft says through his teeth. “And it gave me another chance to remind you about those missile plans.”

“What makes you think I’m not terribly occupied with other matters?”

“You _will_ devote yourself to this case, Brother. Just like I will do everything in my power to protect…your assets,” he says, eyes piercing him. (It was absolutely hateful that the only thing he managed to feel was relief in that moment.)

Sherlock gets to his feet and buttons his coat. Business transaction over, he nods sharply. “Mycroft.”

“Have a pleasant day, Sherlock.”

(Bastard.)

* * *

Jane wakes up to the dense prickling sensation of someone watching her. She jolts up, ever at the ready, and is half way off the bed before she realises it’s only Sherlock. He sits with is back against the headboard, a neutral expression on his face as he regards her before turning to face straight ahead again.

“Morning,” he drawls. He crosses his ankles, and clasps his hands over his midsection.

She settles back down, a breath gusting out of her lungs as her heart rate slows. She smacks her lips, grimacing at the awful taste in her mouth. “Good morning,” she croaks. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock hums noncommittally. “You’re phone has gone off a total of five times,” he says, and Jane reaches for her mobile, willing her bleary eyes to focus. “One is from that Sheldon person I’d wager, and one is definitely from your sister, however the remaining three…”

Jane opens her messages and her heart sinks when she sees more of the cryptic texts from the day before. She looks up to Sherlock staring at her imploringly and realises instantly that he knows.

“Sherlock…” she begins, but she doesn’t get a chance to say anything else before he launches himself off the bed and marches directly out of her room.

She sighs, her heart keeping time with his thunderous steps.

***

“We need to talk,” Jane says sometime later fully showered and dressed, and absolutely out of excuses to put off the inevitable.

“Do we?” Sherlock says with a bored air facing the collage on the wall. He was standing on the sofa with his hands firmly planted on his hips.

Jane huffs impatiently and crosses her arms. “You know we do.”

“Hm,” Sherlock says, still refusing to turn around. It was getting bloody irritating talking to his back. “I can’t imagine what we would _possibly_ have to discuss, Jane.”

“Would you…let up on the sarcasm? Christ,” Jane says. She sits heavily into the lumpy armchair that somehow became hers, and feels more ill-footed than she’s ever felt sitting in her own house. “About the text messages…” she starts.

“Would you have even said anything if I hadn’t found them?” Sherlock says over her, strident.

“You mean if you hadn’t invaded my privacy?” Jane says pugnaciously. She sees where this conversation was going, and she can’t help but be defensive.

“ _Would_ you have?” he reiterates.

“…Yes, of course.” She hopes it doesn’t sound as lame as she thinks. “I was just — waiting for the right time.”

Sherlock suddenly bangs his fist into the wall causing some papers and clippings to flutter to the floor. Jane’s head snaps up at the outburst.

“What an utter load of _tripe!”_ he snarls, and whips around. He steps across to the coffee table before thumping down to the floor. Jane gets back to her feet as he closes the distance between them in two determined strides, looming over her. "You are a profound idiot if you think I actually believe that. You with your soldierly sense of duty. You would have kept it from me, and possibly ruined everything."

“Leave off! I made a mistake, all right?” she says attempting to get around him as an intense claustrophobia suddenly overwhelms her. Sherlock grabs her by her arms, his fingers wrapping around her biceps like vices, effectively stopping her in her tracks. Her eyes flash dangerously. _“Sherlock.”_

“What were you even thinking, Jane? I know your capacity for sound logic isn’t as finely honed as it could be, but surely even you would conclude that receiving threatening messages in the midst of a case from a mad bomber with a sick obsession with me _might_ be something I would need to be aware of!” he says, voice ending in a shout. Jane tries to pull away again, but he grips her tighter. “Not to mention, if said bomber is in fact the very man we’ve been looking for since the start!”

Jane stops her struggling as an icy realisation washes over her. “Since the start? W-what do you mean since the start?”

“Since the start, Jane!” Sherlock shouts, finally releasing her and spinning away, hands fisting into his hair in agitation. “That night! The cabbie and his elusive sponsor. If it weren’t for that night…I would have never…I wouldn’t be…”

“Moriarty,” Jane says in a strangled voice. “That’s who you think the bomber is?”

“Got there, have you?” Sherlock says, the epitome of malice. He presses his palms flat on the desk. 

A thought occurs to her, her mind backpedaling. “Wait what do you mean if it weren’t for that night…?”

Sherlock bows his head looking defeated, the anger suddenly draining out of him. “The night _you_ showed up and changed everything about me.”

“I’m sorry, _what?”_ Jane says, dread pounding into her like a hammer to an anvil.

Sherlock faces her looking just about as poleaxed as she felt. “You heard me,” he accuses. “If it weren’t for you and your – your – _everything,_ I could think properly for a change!”

Jane’s head snaps back as if she were physically stricken by his hand and not his words. She had feared as much — but to actually hear it out loud cut her deeper than she ever thought. Where she was once spoiling for a fight, she is now left feeling oddly bereft.

“Yes, well. It’s about time you finally told me how much of an inconvenience I was being,” Jane says. Her voice sounds hollow to her own ears, and she tries to summon that familiar fortitude. She clears her throat. “Not to worry, though. I suppose it was to be expected. After this case I will make the necessary arrangements.”

She turns on her heel intent on making her way back up to her room to hide, her eyes burning with the onslaught of fierce tears. She hated herself for them.

“What? Jane?” Sherlock says in shock, grabbing the crook of her elbow, she tries to shake him off, but gives up, settling for turning as much of her body away from him as possible. “What do you mean make arrangements? You’re not leaving,” he states.

“Sherlock, let go.”

“Jane. You don’t understand, I’m not — will you _look at me?”_ he says finally turning her to face him. His eyes crash into hers, and they burn her like fire and ice at the same time. It’s too much and she hangs her head. “You’re _not_ leaving,” he says again, and she closes her eyes.

“Please,” she whispers. “Don’t make this harder than it is. I know when I am not wanted.”

“But you are needed,” Sherlock says urgently.

“Yeah. I know. Conductor of Light, or whatever. But I know how you hate being dependant on such things,” she says finally finding the courage to lift her gaze. She gives him a broken smile. “I told you before, it would kill me if that’s what I was to you. Something that tears you apart; I’m tearing you apart and we’re both too blind to realise.”

“You’re not. No, of course you’re not,” Sherlock says. His fingers are pressing even harder into the crests of her shoulders as if he were afraid she would suddenly sprout wings and fly away. She hopes he leaves behind bruises so she could have something tangible that reminded her of the ache in her chest. 

Her hopelessness must register on her face at the fact, because Sherlock nearly shakes her as he begins again in earnest. “You don’t understand, Jane! How can I —? This, between us, is a chemical reaction that cannot be undone! Since the day you walked into Bart’s you unwittingly set into motion a series of catalysts that have propelled us to where we are now. I believe that we are no longer stable elements on our own, and I stand by what I said earlier. The distance, like a weakening covalent bond, isn’t good when it grows between us. The structure degrades, and the separate parts struggle to align. Don’t you see?”

“English, Sherlock,” she bites out through the mire of her emotions, her head pounding.

With a frustrated growl he lowers his head, no doubt despairing her lack of understanding. Finally he looks at her, eyes wild and roving over her face. “Let me try this differently,” he says in exasperation, his tone admonishing. 

Before she can reply, he suddenly pulls her towards him and crushes his lips to hers with bruising force. It lasts all of five seconds before he pulls away, but it was enough to leave her entirely breathless and reeling on all accounts. She gasps.

“Like most people, myself included, you mistake wanting and needing for two different things,” he starts, the hard edge in his voice smoothed away but no less intense. “I used to think I knew what wanting and needing was, but in light of recent events it had me reconsidering the definition. Just because we need air to stay alive, and all of that rubbish, doesn’t mean we don’t also _want_ it in equal measure. You ask a drowning man what he needs – _wants_ more than anything and he will tell you air. You ask a man dying of thirst what he would sell his soul for, and he will tell you water. The difference is: need brings out the desperation of our want, and most regrettably so, when we finally see that what we want and what we need are not mutually exclusive, it usually comes as the cost of — of almost losing it in the first place.”

Jane tries to swallow, her mouth arid, and her throat searing. She doesn’t dare hope. 

“So what does all of that mean, then? What are you trying to tell me?” She trembles, and he slowly brings a hand up to caress the side of her face with the back of his knuckles. He exhales.

“I need you, Jane Watson. Like I need air to breathe.”


	10. Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pressure is raised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have all been wonderful. I hope wading through +100k words was worth it! Kissing ahoy! Oh yeah and case stuff...
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> xxHoney
> 
> *Links in Afters updated!

* * *

_‘I need you, Jane Watson. Like I need air to breathe.’_

The words wash over her, and she closes her eyes. She breathes deeply through her nose, her head still swimming. Sherlock’s hand lightly cups her face, thumb brushing away an errant tear.

“Jane?” he intones.

Her heart kicks wildly against her ribs, and for a moment she’s propelled back in time where the only thing keeping her together amidst the terror, the pain, and the unforgiving desert was that dangerous spark of hope combined with the one person that shared her nightmare. At the time she knew it was wrong, a relationship bred out of a series of awful circumstances and the fear that they wouldn’t make it to see another day. He gave her everything, and she couldn’t return it the way he needed — she _couldn’t_ — and then he —

But this wasn’t Afghanistan. This wasn’t Bill.

This was _Sherlock._

She opens her eyes, and puts her hand over his.

“What changed your mind?” she says, her voice hushed. In that moment she desperately needed to know why now of all times.

“It was during the first bombing. You left angry with me that night, and when you came back the next morning you looked at me like…” Sherlock trails off searching for the right words. “I knew what you were thinking. It was how I felt when I got back to the flat the night you were abducted. The culmination of a fear you didn’t even know existed.”

“The cost of almost losing,” she says repeating his earlier words, and he nods.

“I knew then that we are infinitely stronger together than apart. The threats you were receiving further proved my conjecture. Moriarty is thorough. He knows as much about us, and has attempted to dissever us from each other.”

She tilts her had curiously at this. “You really are inside his head, aren’t you?”

Sherlock curls his lip in a bitter smirk. “He said so himself. Two sides of the same coin, remember?”

“Nope,” Jane says, and he looks back at her. “Just because you can see how his twisted mind works doesn’t mean you’re the same.”

“People would argue that you would be wrong.”

“Oh, people. Idiots, all of them,” she says with a smile, feeling another tear escape the corner of her eye.

A laugh startles out of him, and he looks at her with something akin to bafflement. His hand makes its way from where he was caressing her cheek down to rest against the side of her neck.

“I think I need to kiss you now,” he says.

“Yeah. All right,” she says grinning, and in their combined eagerness, they end up clashing teeth and bumping noses — hopelessly clumsy and absolutely beyond caring — before they break apart again giggling. “Sherlock Holmes: an expert in _most_ things.”

“I resent that,” Sherlock growls playfully and reels her in even closer. “Besides when was the last time you kissed anyone either?”

“It was _you_ , you berk,” she says shoving him playfully in the chest, before another sobering realisation capitulates her. _When I thought I would never get to kiss you again._

She breathes out a shaky breath, and winds her arms around the back of his neck. She closes her eyes and presses her forehead against the side of his jaw, overwhelmed with the fact that this was her life and someone, somewhere decided she deserved all of this.

His fingers curl under her chin, and he lifts her head to meet his gaze. His eyes, like morning fog search hers, and she shivers lightly. They lean in towards each other again, this time slower, and all Jane can hear is the rushing of her pulse in her ears. He ducks his head, but hesitates suddenly unsure and gripped with the same fear that dogged her constantly as of late. The fear of the unknown. Her hand twines into the hair at the nape of his neck in silent understanding, and that’s all it takes before the last remaining inches between them are finally breached.

The kiss is tender and somewhat chaste. Not at all like the first time when all they could think of was their desire and their urgency. No, there was something tentative and sacred in the way Sherlock’s lips moved over hers. _Savouring,_ she realises. _Cataloguing. Experimenting. Seeking. Trusting._

_Asking…_

She parts her mouth just so in answer to the meek question posed by Sherlock’s tongue sipping at the bow of her lips. His hand tangles into her hair as she sighs and allows him to explore to his hearts content. He tastes of spicy mint, and entirely too much caffeine, and something reminiscent of oranges, and the cacophony of flavours makes her almost giddy with how perfect it all is. He’s quite talented, (of course he is, bloody good at everything) and Jane’s head goes pleasantly foggy as she loses herself in the kiss.

The low burning flame that she had tamped down for so long since that first night rears up in a full blaze, and she clutches at his shoulders. He reciprocates, earnest hands grasping her waist, and moves her backwards.

Her foot hits the coffee table, and she stumbles for a moment only to be righted again by Sherlock.

Their lips break apart, and she laughs as he grouses, “Bloody thing,” before manoeuvring them around the obstacle and towards the sofa.

Jane falls back when her legs hit the cushions, and pulls Sherlock with her. He lands on top of her in a truly undignified heap, and she can’t help but chuckle even more as she fixes one of his wayward curls that was standing up on the top of his head in a playful little arch. He tries to keep his composure, but can’t help but join in with her as she laughs even harder, unable to contain the joy bursting through her. It was apparently contagious, because they both carried on until they had matching tears in their eyes.

“We’re a couple of idiots, aren’t we?” Jane says breathlessly. She frames Sherlock’s face with her hands, her thumb tracing one of his eyebrows.

“Mm. Perhaps,” he says, a gleam in his eye. He braces himself over her, and simply _looks,_ his pupils wide, and his expression one of awe.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s mobile rings from somewhere near by making them both start. “Lestrade?” she says, and Sherlock groans pressing his face briefly into the curve of her neck before tearing himself away.

Jane wills her heart to slow its frantic beating, and she pulls herself up into a sitting position. She shakes her head a little trying to clear it, and gets to her feet at the sound of Sherlock barking down the phone from the kitchen. She pauses in front of the mirror, and tries to fix her hair. The process of finger-combing it into submission was getting her nowhere, so she sighs and grabs one of the elastic hair bands looped over the utility knife embedded into the mantle.

“I told you earlier, Inspector!” Sherlock snaps just as Jane walks into the kitchen. “It’s Moriarty. I know it is.” There is a pause while Lestrade’s tinny and very irate voice filters through the small speaker, and Sherlock growls in frustration. “Of course you wouldn’t find anything. Do you really think he’s so stupid as to go by his _real_ surname?” Another pause before Sherlock cuts off the DI with a strident, “You have all the proof you require! Yes, yes the witness. The old woman. She heard him speak and can confirm that his voice is the same from the video I sent you.” She frowns as Sherlock suddenly stills. _“What?”_ he says, a hard edge in his voice, and Jane bites her lip. A gravid silence settles over him like a shroud as he listens intently to what is being said on the other line, his face darkening bit by bit. Finally he takes a sharp breath, his eyes glazed over as he rings off. 

“Sherlock?” Jane says, an uncomfortable twinge lodging itself low in her gut. He continues to stare at some unmarked point on the wall for a moment before suddenly slamming his mobile down on the table so hard he causes a rack of test tubes to rattle and a Petri dish to fall to the floor.

“DAMN it!” Sherlock roars kicking a chair over in the process.

“What? What happened?” Jane says, alarmed. Sherlock utters another dark curse and grabs an empty beaker, ratcheting back his arm as if to hurtle it at the wall. Jane stops him. “Sherlock! Tell me what’s going on! You’re scaring me.”

A little of the vitriol drains out of his avid frame, and he settles with banging the beaker down on the worktop making her flinch. He turns around and wipes a hand over his mouth, and Jane waits anxiously for him to gather himself. Finally he looks up at her.

“We were _ahead_ of him for once, Jane!”

“What are you talking about?” she says, voice rising to his level. “Start from the beginning.”

“The old woman! She was the only one who could give us a positive I.D. on Moriarty’s voice from the video.”

“What video?” she says reeling, and he nods making his way quickly out to the sitting room. He grabs his laptop sitting on his armchair and sets it up on the desk. Her blog was already up, and with a succinct tap of the return key, the embedded video starts playing.

Jane watches it with growing horror, and sinks down to sit on the coffee table, a hand poised over her mouth. She looks around their flat feeling violated and exposed at the knowledge that a serial bomber and murderer was in their very flat touching their things. Oh god what if Mrs. Hudson came up in that instant? She swallows back the sick feeling at the thought.

“He was _here?”_ Jane says.

“It appears so, but that’s not all,” Sherlock says and brings up his own website. “You aren’t the only one who was hacked. You remember the cryptic messages?”

“Yeah…the [ciphers?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2335930) I thought it was just a prankster. You think it’s him?”

“Yes. Too big of a coincidence. The universe is rarely so lazy. He left a video for me too. I only just discovered it today.” Sherlock taps the return key again, and Jane holds her breath as the second video starts.

At first, blackness fills the screen until the lens cap is removed and the focus is adjusted. It’s trained on a random scrawl of graffiti on the side of what appears to be a phone box, and Jane stares at the white spray paint in confusion. Then the familiar lilting voice Jane had only ever heard once yet grew to despise instantly, floats through the speakers. Unlike the conversation in Lestrade’s office, the voice was clearer yet unaffected by any discernable accent but it was definitely the same one.

 _“I’m watching you, Sherlock,”_ it says, and Jane suddenly realises she’s looking at a rough rendition of the All Seeing Eye. Sherlock freezes the image.

“Look familiar?”

“Should it?”

“See for yourself,” Sherlock says, and she follows him to the window. He pulls back the drapes and points across the street.

There, next to the kerb, is the very same telephone box. Her hand begins its hateful tremor, and she flexes her fingers rhythmically. She feels ill, and she doesn’t want to know the answer to the question she knows she has to ask next. She licks her lips.

“Sherlock…what happened to the old woman? Did he — did he kill her?”

“No. Might as well have,” he grumbles, and Jane gives him a reprimanding look. He has the decency to look a little contrite at this, and clears his throat. In a much gentler tone he says, “There was a charge found in the head set the woman was using. It was small, but given the proximity of both ear pieces, it managed to effectively render her deaf when it was set off.”

Jane closes her eyes against the horror he was implying. “So let me get this straight…he blew out a _blind woman’s_ eardrums?” Sherlock presses his lips into a grim line, and Jane has to actively choke back bile. “What a sick bastard!”

“She won’t be able to identify the voice on this video, and without the cross-reference with the previously recorded phone conversation, Lestrade can’t really go any further. His supposed ‘crack team’ of criminal profilers are apparently wasted.” He runs a hand through his ragged curls. “It was a long shot her testimony would have made any significant leap, but it was all we had.” He presses his fists on either side of his head and screws up his eyes, growling angrily at himself.

Jane huffs out a breath, and makes a decision. She nods once to herself and makes her way to the frame on the mantle that had a taxidermied bat mounted in the centre, and flips it over. She peels off the single cigarette from where it was taped to the back, and marches over to Sherlock.

“You _will_ figure it out, Sherlock. You always do,” she says pulling away one of his hands from where it was trying to apparently squeeze the answers out of his skull, and places the fag into his palm. “Now: you are going to smoke that, and I am going to make [tea,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2337704) and then we are going to go over what we know while we wait for our favourite fanatic psycho-bomber to give us a ring. Sound good?”

* * *

Sherlock takes another long drag of the cigarette abandoning his attempt to savour it as the delicious nicotine floods his veins. He glares at the defaced phone box from his position on the pavement, and lets the crisp spring air clear his head. (This was definitely what he needed. This proves his point even more that he functioned better with Jane than without.)

He drops the end of the cigarette and crushes it under the toe of his shoe and opens the door where the smell of freshly brewed tea beckons him upstairs.

When he enters the sitting room a hot steaming cup is thrust directly into his hands by Jane.

“Drink,” she commands and steers him back to facing the ever-growing maelstrom of data plastered to their wall. “Solve.”

“Not a dog, Jane,” he remarks taking a sip. (Like usual it was perfect.)

“Quiet. I hear tea is good for the synapses as long as you let it do its job. Now, tell me what I can do. I want to help,” she says standing next to him.

“We have to start at square one with Powers,” Sherlock says.

“Classmates?”

“None of them checked out.”

“Could he have been older?” she asks.

“The thought had occurred,” he drawls. Just then the pink phone pings its text alert, and Sherlock nearly pounces on it from where it was sitting on the desk. _“Finally!”_

His thumb slides the unlock key and he opens the newest message.

_Beep…beeeeep!_

A photo pops up, and Jane and Sherlock tilt their heads in tandem.

“The Thames…?” Jane says.

“Yes. South bank, somewhere between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge. Check the papers and I’ll look online,” he says, thumbs flying furiously over the keys of his own mobile. He looks at the tide times while simultaneously pulling up the local news.

“Archway suicide,” Jane informs him flipping through a newspaper.

(Ten a penny, they are.) “No keep looking.” He thumbs through reports in the radius of Waterloo, Battersea, and Greenwich. Nothing.

“Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington.”

Sherlock searches the duty log under _Thames Police Reports_ and comes up empty handed.

“Man found on the train line — oh, Andrew West,” she says glumly.

“No, no, _no!”_ he huffs, scowling down at his mobile. After a long moment, he caves and submits himself to dialing Lestrade. He picks up on the first ring.

_“Sherlock?”_

“Have you found anything on the south bank between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo Bridge?” he says skipping all preamble.

 _“How did you know about that? I was just about to phone you,”_ Lestrade says.

“Picture message of the Thames. We’ll be there shortly.”

***

“So this is definitely connected, then?” Lestrade asks leading them down the shore where a group of forensic officers were still processing the body. (At least Anderson wasn’t here so hopefully the evidence was still in tact.) (Mostly.)

“It has to be, although he’s broken his pattern. He hasn’t been in touch,” Sherlock says holding up the pink phone for emphasis before putting it back in his pocket.

“Maybe he ran out of hostages?” Lestrade says hopefully.

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

“So it’s probably safe to assume some other poor unfortunate is primed to explode?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says looming over the body of a man in what appears to be a generic issued uniform.

“Any ideas?” Lestrade asks.

(Uniform: standard. Overweight. Supermarket manager? Public transportation? Security guard? Insignia on shirt removed. Mugged? Revenge? A hit? Bruising around nose and mouth. Personal. Fingertips? Oh fingertips…)

“Seven…so far.”

“Seven?!” Lestrade says incredulously.

“Mm,” Sherlock acknowledges. “Need a closer look.”

Sherlock crouches down next to the man and pulls out his magnifier. He examines the bruises over the mouth and notes that they are indeed fingertips. (A hit, then. He would recognise this particular signature anywhere.) 

He moves down the body, and examines the shirt pocket where it has been ripped apart, clearly a ruse to mask this man’s place of employment as well as his name. He wanders down and notes the plastic clip on the man’s belt. (Security guard, then.)

He checks the watch. The alarm button doesn’t offer much give, and he sees that it is habitually set for half two in the morning.

By the time he reaches the guard’s feet, it’s just reaffirming what he’s already pieced together. With a smirk, Sherlock rises from his crouch just as Jane kneels to examine the body.

“He’s been dead for about twenty-four hours. Maybe longer.” She looks up to Lestrade. “Did he drown?”

“Apparently not. Not enough water in his lungs. He was asphyxiated.”

“I would agree,” she says. “There’s a bit of bruising around his nose and mouth.”

“Fingertips,” Sherlock murmurs, and searches local missing persons. He narrows it down to a hand full of possibilities.

“What was that?” Lestrade asks, and Sherlock absently waves his hand in his direction as if batting away something bothersome. He looks up Interpol’s most wanted on a hunch, and finds what he’s looking for. (Threads. You have to follow the threads. Moriarty likens himself to a loom weaver, the patterns and choreographed chaos of the entire tapestry was connected by one continuous thread. Like a spider’s web, even. The description was more than apt.)

_Czech Republic._

(a wink in the form of expensive bohemian stationary)

_Most Wanted: Oskar Dzundza aka the Golem._

(a hit, obviously a hit, security guard – where? ~~parking garage,~~ ~~hotel,~~ ~~museum,~~ gallery attendant — yes back up: gallery attendant but why a hit? newspapers newspapers newspapers — something about a painting? search)

_Lost Vermeer Painting._

_Hickman Gallery Proprietor: Berta Wenceslas._

(summary – stationary: Czech, hired assassin: Czech, Wenceslas surname: _Czech_ ) (oh how poetic almost.)

A clever smirk lilts the corner of Sherlock’s mouth as the puzzle falls beautifully into place.

“He’s in his late thirties, I would say. Not in the best condition,” Jane says concluding her diagnosis and pushing herself back upright.

“He’s been in the river a long while. The water’s corrupted most of the data,” Sherlock says standing straight and triumphant. “But I’ll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer painting is a fake.”

“What?” Lestrade says, baffled.

“The key is identifying the corpse,” Sherlock says over him as if he hadn’t spoken. “We need to find information on his friends, interest, associates, the like…”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Lestrade says just as Sherlock starts to walk off back in the direction they came. “What do you mean a painting? _What_ are you bloody on about?”

“Haven’t you seen the news? Dutch Old Master, supposedly destroyed centuries ago; now it’s turned up. Worth thirty. million. pounds,” Sherlock says emphasisng each word in turn.

“And what does this have to do with our friend over ‘ere?” Lestrade says gruffly, patience wearing to almost transparent.

“ _Everything._ Haven’t you ever heard of the Golem?” Sherlock says, equally frustrated.

“Golem?” Lestrade says stupidly, and Sherlock clenches his jaw in irritation. (Honestly, it was like he was being this slow out of spite.)

Before Sherlock can tear into him however, Jane pipes, “It’s a horror story, isn’t it?”

“Jewish folk story,” Sherlock nods, “Giant man made of clay that comes to life and squeezes the life out of his victims. It’s also the name of one of the deadliest assassins in the world: Oskar Dzundza.”

“So this is a hit?” Lestrade says attempting (and failing) to spell the name of the culprit correctly in his pocket notepad.

“Oh most definitely,” Sherlock says, “Fingertip bruising dappling the face: that’s his trademark style. He likes to kill his targets with his bare hands.”

A grim silence follows this as all three of them look back at the body in understanding before Lestrade cuts in again.

“Yeah but what has all of this got to do with that painting? I don’t see…”

“Arugh! You do _see_ you just don’t _observe_ —”

“All right, _girls,_ that’s enough,” Jane says effectively putting an end to their bickering. Sherlock tugs his coat collar up petulantly even though there is hardly any chill. “Sherlock? Why don’t you take us through it?”

Sherlock clears his throat and eyes Lestrade. He grudgingly flips a page on his notepad and licks the tip of his pencil. He nods for Sherlock to go on.

“Fine. As I was saying earlier: the key to this is identifying the corpse. The killer’s not left us with much, just the shirt and the trousers. Formal, so maybe he was going out, but the quality is cheap, ill-fitting polyester so it speaks on behalf of something else. A uniform, standard issue. Dressed for work, then. What kind of work? There’s a plastic hook on his belt from a walkie-talkie.”

“Tube driver?” Lestrade asks, eyebrows drawn. Sherlock grimaces.

“Security guard?” Jane says, and Sherlock nods.

“Most likely if you consider taking a look at his backside.”

“Backside?!”

“Are you just going to repeat everything I say, or are you going to use your brain for once, Inspector?” Sherlock snaps.

“Sherlock,” Jane says.

“This man obviously led a sedentary life given his physique, however the soles of his feet and the varicose veins in his legs says otherwise. So a lot of sitting, _and_ a lot of walking. So far, security guard’s looking good. The watch helps matters, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts.”

“Why regular? Maybe he just set his alarm the night before he died?” Jane says.

“No. The buttons are stiff. He set it a while ago, meaning his routine never varied. There was clearly an insignia on his shirt that the killer tore off in his haste suggesting that he worked at an institution; somewhere recognisable. It was between either the museum or the art gallery, and when I did a search the Hickman Gallery recently reported one of its attendants as missing.” Sherlock gestures down to the body. “Meet Alex Woodbridge, works the graveyard at the Gallery. Now the real question is: why would anybody hire a hit on an ordinary security guard like him? The unveiling of that painting is today. Inference: the dead man knew something about the painting — something that would prevent the owner from getting paid thirty-million pounds. Inference: the picture’s a fake.”

“That was…fantastic,” Jane says after a beat of stunned silence.

“Meretricious,” he shrugs even though his face heats slightly under her praise.

“And a Happy New Year,” Lestrade says, attempting to recover his dumb astonishment. Sherlock rolls his eyes as the DI flips his pad closed. “I better get my feelers out for this ‘Golem’ character.”

“Pointless. Wasted over-time on your part; you’ll never find him. But don’t worry. I know a man who can,” Sherlock says turning swiftly on his heel.

“Who?” Lestrade says struggling to keep up. 

Sherlock huffs a laugh, tucking his scarf more securely about his neck.

 _“Me,”_ he grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for a Doctor Who quote! If you noticed it, kudos to you!
> 
> And some of you have been asking me what I think Jane looks like, and after much searching the interwebz, I have stumbled across something, and I made a cover for the Colour of Light. Hope you guys like it!
> 
>  


	11. Of Cats and Canaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crisis, existential modern art, opera singers (again), and coat collars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS. 
> 
> This chapter is ridiculous. I had way too much fun writing it.
> 
> Sir Arthur, I bow to you.
> 
> And all of you are so amazing. Seriously. Thank you to anybody who had taken the time to drop by or recommend this to your friends.
> 
> *Link updated! And it is just as ridiculous as this chapter so it works.

* * *

“Where next? The gallery?” Jane says as a taxi pulls up next to them.

“In a bit. I’ve got to do something first,” Sherlock says sliding into the cab after her. “Waterloo Bridge,” he instructs the cabbie. “Can I borrow a piece of paper?”

“Yeah,” Jane says pulling out her notebook and tearing out a blank page. “Hickman’s is a contemporary art place, isn’t it? Why do they have an Old Master?”

Sherlock takes the paper from her and scribbles a note with a pen he procured…from somewhere, and he folds it up together with the bank note. “I don’t know. Lots of ideas, but it is a capital mistake to theorise without all of the data.”

“Really?” Jane says, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Sherlock stuffs the papers into his pocket and looks up at her. He frowns.

“What?”

“You being all mysterious,” she says, smirk threatening to unfurl into an actual smile.

“What do you mean, mysterious?” Sherlock says, abashed.

“You know…you with your secret messages and turned up coat collar. Not to mention that thing you just said. If I didn’t know you like I did I wouldn’t think you were for real.”

“What did I say?!” Sherlock says even more exasperated.

Jane raises her finger mockingly and lowers her voice in her best impression. “It’s a capital mistake to theorise without all the data’.”

“What are you doing? Is that supposed to be me?” Sherlock glares. This only sets Jane off laughing. “You’re not as funny as you think you are. And besides, it’s _true._ Insensibly, if one is not careful, one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”

“See there you go again!” she accuses.

“I don’t understand what is so amusing,” Sherlock says, an irritable undercurrent to her bubbling mirth. He folds his arms in front of his chest and scowls out the window.

“You’re just _you,”_ she says grinning all the wider. “ _Sherlock Holmes._ Your name even sounds like you belong in a Victorian crime novel.”

“Oh god,” Sherlock murmurs fixing the ceiling of the cab with a disparaging look, but Jane’s on a roll.

“We could even switch the sofa out for a chaise lounge so you could properly languish for a change, and instead of cigarettes we’ll get you a churchwarden pipe and everything!”

“Jane Watson, you are on dangerous ground,” Sherlock warns.

“God I can’t stop!” she says laughing even harder at the image her brain conjured up. “You even have your own catch phrase!”

“Catch phrase!” Sherlock squawks. “I do not have a catch phrase!”

“The Game is On!” Jane crows, pointing a finger in the air.

“Ha, ha,” he says, throwing her a sarcastic look. He leans forward to speak to the cabbie, “Stop just up here by the underpass.”

“Oh? Secret liaisons in dark underpasses, is it?” Jane teases. “That’s not mysterious at all, no sir.”

Sherlock suddenly twists in his seat, pressing his arms to either side — one on the seat back behind them, and the other on the seat back across — filling the space and effectively creating a cage with his lanky frame. It startles the laughter out of her, and she presses her lips together trying to rein in her grin.

“You might want to stop now,” he says dangerously, a mischievous glimmer in his blazing eyes.

“Or what? Your creepy looming doesn’t work on me,” she says, her voice dark and wry to match his.

“Or: I will just have to find a way to _make_ you,” Sherlock says, the end of the sentence coming out in a low growl. The cab rolls to a stop next to the kerb.

Like a jaguar, Sherlock leans in as if about to pounce, all sleek lines and predatory instinct, and Jane’s heart kicks up several notches, her eyes widening as the sudden pulse of adrenaline curls pleasantly in her stomach. 

Then like lightening, he reaches behind her and unlatches the door she didn’t realise she was so heavily crowded against, causing her to nearly fall right onto the pavement.

“Hey!” she exclaims, awkwardly trying _not_ to end up on her behind as Sherlock climbs over her.

“Tell the cabbie to wait, won’t you?” he says without a backward glance, and Jane can hear the smugness in his voice. 

_Prat,_ she thinks before clambering out to follow him. He jumps over a guardrail to the other side of the walk, and Jane curses his bloody long legs as she follows somewhat less gracefully. 

“Spare change, sir?” a young woman with a weathered cardboard sign says as they approach her. The many carrier bags surrounding her feet as well as the threadbare jumper she’s wearing speaks of her homelessness louder than her sign does.

“What for?” Sherlock says coolly.

“Cup of tea, a-course,” she replies, and Jane realises it’s some sort of code between them. Sherlock pulls out the note and hands it to her. He turns around to go back to the idling taxi but before he does, he thinks better of it and pulls the scarf from his neck. 

He hands it to her. “Bit cold.”

“Gettin’ warmer. It’s nearly Spring,” she shrugs, but drapes it over her shoulders regardless. 

Jane watches this uncharacteristic act of compassion from her usually austere flatmate, her mouth dropping open slightly, and she almost misses when Sherlock breezes past her on his way back to their ride.

“What was that about?” Jane says taking the fold out seat in front of him as they get back into the cab.

“Just investing,” Sherlock says pulling out his mobile and aimlessly scrolling. She continues to watch him, dumbfounded. He looks up after a moment and assesses Jane’s scrutinising gaze. He rolls his eyes. “What is it this time?”

“You gave her your scarf,” Jane says.

“Very good, Jane. I’m glad my observational skills are finally rubbing off on you,” he replies dryly.

“You love that scarf.”

“It’s irrational to form a sentimental attachment to material objects, Jane. And besides, I have others,” Sherlock says.

“No. You don’t. You just have the one,” Jane says.

“Does this impossibly tedious conversation have a point?” Sherlock says, tossing her a defensive look. Which is further evidence to what her own little deductions have led her to believe.

“You care about her,” Jane states.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snaps. “It’s just a scarf.” _Sure._

“What’s her name?” Jane asks, a warm feeling blooming in her chest. If she had a name for it, it would be something akin to pride that she feels for him.

“Alison,” Sherlock says. “She keeps an eye out. Invaluable; homeless network. No one ever looks twice at them. They are my eyes and ears all over the city.”

“Don’t try to explain this away. You’re not just using her; you actually care about her in some capacity.”

“Will you just…drop it?” Sherlock says tiredly. “I don’t _care_ about her.”

“Yeah you do. You know her name, even. You can’t even be bothered to remember Greg’s half the time,” Jane says refusing to let this go. Sherlock had such a skewed perception of himself, and she wanted to…well, she didn’t know what exactly. At least have him acknowledge the fact that he wasn’t some cold, unfeeling automaton from time to time.

“I only do that to annoy him. And besides, I simply understand Alison. That’s all. When you’re homeless, staying that much warmer makes all the difference between simply passing the time until dawn, and being miserable and aching for the entire night,” he says casually. Too casually, actually.

“Wait…you…are you speaking from experience?” Jane asks surprised. He darts her a sheepish look before staring resolutely out the window.

“That shouldn’t be a surprise to you,” he says, sounding bored. She doesn’t miss his anxious shifting, however.

She tilts her head and looks at him for a little longer, feeling a bit off-kilter all of a sudden. 

She nearly forgot that just over an hour ago, their entire relationship practically did a one-eighty and now their dynamic was about to completely change. She cursed herself for her oversight. God, she wanted this, she really did, but she forgot about how much came with — with letting people in. She gets a low swooping sensation in her gut when she realises she actually knows very little of her…flatmate? Partner? Christ, what even _were_ they now? There were so many things they still needed to talk about. So many things she had to tell him, and the thought of him finally finding out the things lurking in the corners of her dark past terrifies her to no end.

Before she can get her bearings on the whole situation and tamp down the crisis threatening to paralyse her, her mobile goes off and she fumbles for it, numb fingers working on autopilot.

 _[unknown number] — 12:39 PM_  
 _did you like my little gift? i’ve always been a fan of your blog._

She inhales as if in pain, hand shaking. Oh god. How could she forget about the deranged madman stalking them? It was all a bit too much, and the air in her lungs feels heavy and hot like tar. She struggles to draw a proper breath, her throat slamming closed as dark patches crackle at the edges of her vision. They were starting a relationship in the midst of _this?_ What were they thinking?

Suddenly, her phone is plucked from her hand and soundly tossed out the window of the moving taxi, and replaced with a warm palm and reassuring pressure against her own.

“Jane? Look at me,” Sherlock’s voice flows over her, and she snaps out of the vicious rip tide threatening to drag her out to sea. Her eyes find his like a ship seeking harbour through the mist. “This is how he works,” he says, his voice steady, “he gets inside your head and terrorises you, making you second guess your every move. Don’t let him win.”

She nods weakly, the clamp in her throat easing, and wills her breathing to slow. Her cheeks heat in embarrassment as she wrangles her self-control back from the precipice of an impending panic attack, but Sherlock doesn’t patronise her. He simply keeps his hand in hers and goes back to staring out the window, his thumb absently roving over the peaks and valleys of her knuckles. 

Jane looks down at their clasped hands resting atop Sherlock’s knee, and swallows thickly. In that moment she decides it doesn’t matter what they are now, or were before — or even what happens in the future. All that matters is that they are together right now. The rest would come later. She had to believe that.

She eases back in her seat, careful not to break their connection as the tension drains out of her. She could deal with this. She wouldn’t let a psychopath get under her skin. She would do everything in her power to protect what ever it was blooming between them, fragile though it was.

Feeling more confident with a plan of action, Jane looks likewise out the window. A thought suddenly occurs to her, her brain playing catch up, and she groans.

“You threw my phone out of a moving vehicle.”

“Ah. Yes,” Sherlock says not meeting her eyes. “I thought it was prudent at the time but in hindsight…Not good?”

“Bit not good. A bit impulsive, actually,” Jane says in defeat.

“Oh you know you like my impulsivity,” he says crooking a grin at her in the reflection of the glass. “It’s charming.”

She purses her lips, determined not to smile. “Well right now it’s [bloody inconvenient.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2375566) Don’t make this a habit of yours: chucking my things out of windows.”

All she’s met with is a rumble of dark laughter that is more disconcerting than anything, but when he squeezes her hand she knows she’s already forgiven him. 

The git.

* * *

“Yes but what is it supposed to be?” Sherlock says tilting his head to the left. (As if that would make the technicolour mash-up of oblong shapes any less nonsensical.)

“I think…” Jane starts, taking a step towards the twenty foot canvas. Her eyebrows shoot up in recognition, and she takes several steps back. “Nope. I’m sure of it. It’s a representation of the female reproductive system.”

 _“What?”_ he says, aghast. He steps back to where she’s stood, and looks at the canvas from top to bottom. “Oh for god’s sake,” he says realising she’s right, and Jane snickers from behind her hand. “What is the point of this?”

“It’s art. It doesn’t have to have a point. Actually maybe that is the point, not having a point…?” Jane frowns as she rehearses the backwards logic in her head.

“Ridiculous.”

“I guess we won’t be taking you by the existential haystack-looking-things, then,” Jane says. Then after a beat, “Sherlock. Are you blushing?”

“No,” Sherlock says dubiously, still staring at the painting. He tilts his head to the other side, however, before he realises what he’s doing and gives himself a little shake. “Come on. We need to find a way to get into the gallery with the Vermeer.” He nods in the direction of the sectioned off room a little ways from them. A velvet rope stretches from one side of the archway to the other, and a large sign stands in front proclaiming the grand unveiling for later that evening. He needed to see the painting up close, but he wanted to be somewhat discreet about it.

“How do you propose we do that?” Jane says.

Just then, a security guard walks past them, catching Sherlock’s eye. He was clearly done with his shift (if the coffee in his hand was anything to go by) and Sherlock motions for Jane and him to follow. They spy him just as he turns the corner and disappears behind a set of double doors. Sherlock squints and sees that it’s an employee locker room.

“Ha!” Sherlock says under his breath, and casually glances up and down the corridor. After making sure that it’s clear he makes his way likewise through the doors with Jane on his heels.

They creep as quietly as they can into the locker room, and Sherlock takes note that they are alone except for their friendly security guard. It isn’t exactly the most dangerous situation Sherlock’s found himself in, but there’s something about Jane’s excited thrum of energy pressing at his back that makes everything that much more thrilling. Suddenly, a locker door nearby slams shut, and Sherlock curses under his breath, swiftly backing up and yanking Jane into an empty shower stall. The space is crammed and he winds an arm around her drawing her close. He attempts to silently pull the plastic curtain shut as the sound of footsteps gets closer and closer, and Jane holds her breath as he tries to breathe quietly through his nose.

In the stall next to theirs, the curtain is being swept aside followed by the rusted squeak of the tap. Steam begins to quickly fill the locker room along with snatches of… _La Donna e Mobile_ sung in a boisterous, warbling tenor.

Jane looks up at him quietly shaking with repressed laughter, and Sherlock has to press his finger to his own quirking lips. (Good god. If Pavarotti were still alive he would be clutching his heart in despair.) After a moment, he decides it’s safe for them to leave their hiding spot, and he takes her hand, leading them quickly around to the surrounding banks of lockers.

“Oh my god,” Jane says, tears of mirth in her eyes.

“I know. The Italian language is usually a beautiful one. Too bad it’s been so horrendously butchered.”

“Shh, don’t make me laugh. I’ll blow our cover,” Jane says holding a stitch in her side, and Sherlock can’t help the insane grin splitting his face.

“Help me find an open locker,” Sherlock whispers, and sets about looking for one without a padlock. After a moment, Jane beckons him over to one at the end of the row, and he opens it with an exhalation of triumph. There hanging neatly, was a formal white shirt, a hat, and a jacket.

 _“Perfect,”_ he says swinging off his coat. “Help me with them.”

Jane nods and pulls the shirt and jacket off the wooden hanger, and replaces them with the Belstaff, followed by his suit jacket a moment later just as Sherlock starts divesting himself of his charcoal dress shirt. He tosses it at her unceremoniously, and slips on the white polyester, hastily doing up the buttons all the way to the collar and tucking it into his waistband.

“Help me with the tie,” he says, darting a glance over Jane’s shoulder as the sound of the shower shuts off.

“Stop fidgeting,” Jane reprimands as he tries to shimmy on the jacket simultaneously.

“Hurry up,” he says. She tugs the tie sharply to silence him, but he catches the impish gleam in her eye as she straightens the knot at his throat. “How do I look?” he says, finally placing the hat on his head to complete the ensemble.

“That’s a good look for you,” she says seriously.

“I might just keep it,” he says flicking the brim.

“Might do. Although your hair would suffer,” she banters back. He gives her a lopsided grin, and takes her hand again, pulling her back out the way they came in. They stop just around the corner from the cordoned off gallery, and Sherlock spots Miss Wenceslas.

“I’m going to go see if I can get a rise out of our friendly proprietor over there,” Sherlock intones. “I need you to go do some follow up on Alex Woodbridge. Visit his apartment; find out about his acquaintances, hobbies, the like,” he says and presses his mobile into Jane’s palm. “Take my phone and text Lestrade. He knows the address.”

“Okay, and be careful,” Jane says.

“Of course,” Sherlock says and makes to head into the gallery. Jane catches his wrist.

“One more thing,” she says, lips curving.

“What?”

“You forgot to turn your collar up,” she smirks, and proceeds to do just that. Sherlock rolls his eyes, and she giggles a bit before an odd expression flickers over her face causing the smile to slowly fade. Her eyes search his for a moment, but before he can parse out what she’s looking for, she lifts up on her toes and presses a soft kiss to his lips that takes him entirely by surprise. He gasps, and she drops back down to her heels. “Sorry. I just…needed to do that.” She blushes, and her eyes flit away from his in embarrassment.

He clears his throat, a strange tightness seizing in his chest. When would this aching tenderness he felt for Jane Watson relent? It scrambled him sometimes, like a cocktail of adrenaline and post-case high flooding his brain and causing to short out for a few seconds.

“No, erm. It’s fine,” Sherlock replies, stilted.

“Right,” Jane says, trying to cover up her mortification. She pulls away intent on leaving. “I’ll just —”

Sherlock grabs her wrist and pulls her back in before she could get too far. He presses his forehead to hers, the brim of the hat bumping awkwardly, and with every ounce of will he has, refrains from kissing her back ardently and fully.

“I can’t…the case it…you make my head funny,” he says. For some reason this doesn’t seem to make it better because Jane’s defences go up even higher as she tries to brush it off with a self-deprecating shrug.

“I get it; it’s fine, I can —”

 _“Jane,”_ he says, hand sliding to the nape of her neck, keeping her from pulling away too much. He doesn’t know what to say that will assuage her so he fixes her with a pleading look and hopes she understands. She presses her lips into a thin line, but her eyes soften, and she breathes out a steady breath.

“I know. You make my head funny too,” Jane says, finally. She pulls away after another moment, fixing his crooked hat. This time when she smiles it’s real if not a bit weathered. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yes. I’ll find you,” he says, tugging up the ridiculous collar on the jacket a bit higher.

“Yep. Absolutely not mysterious at all,” Jane says wryly. His only response is to quirk his eyebrow. “Bloody enigma,” she grumbles fondly, and all but shoves him towards the exhibit.

He chuckles as he watches her go, the curious feeling that had been blooming inside of him all the while only growing by the second. Sherlock observes it even makes his fingertips ache with how much affection is filling the once cavernous places inside of him. It’s incongruously energising and terrifying all at once. (It’s rather brilliant, actually.)

He touches his fingers to his lips, and smirks privately to himself before slipping in to the sectioned off room. He clasps his hands behind his back, and makes is way to the prim woman standing by the panting in the ornately carved frame. It was the only one on the wall, displayed with pride. The way she stares at it, shoulders relaxed, a hand on her hip (confident, overly so — like the cat that caught the canary) he just _knows_ she knows more than she’s letting on. 

(Oh yes. This was going to be fun.)

“Ah. Miss Wenceslas. Just the person I wanted to see…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This chapter is dedicated to my dear Az for having to put up with the humdrum of her job and still manages to be awesome. I hope your day was well. And to Lindsey for being one of the ones who've stuck with me since the beginning._


	12. High Visibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being seen is a wonder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBH this chapter frustrated me guys. It started out as fodder just to keep the story going but then half way through I had some inspiration from all of you who have kept telling me how much you appreciate this story and I made it more significant with feels and stuff. Hope you all like it, and thank you so so much for the love I get from you all.
> 
> xxHoney.

* * *

“So, er, he was a stargazer, was he?” Jane says awkwardly bumping into the telescope in the small bedroom. She tries to put the sheet that was covering it back over, but it keeps slipping so she decides to drape it over the single sized bed.

“Oh yeah,” the woman Julie, Woodbridge’s flatmate says, “mad about it. That’s all he did in his spare time. He was a nice guy, Alex. I liked him.” She sighs wistfully.

“What about art? Was he a hobbyist of that too?” Jane says trying to be gentle in her prodding.

“No that was just a job to him; just something to pay the bills, y’know?”

“Yes, I do actually,” Jane nods, looking around the dusty space.

“Never was one for Hoovering,” she chuckles sadly.

“Has anyone been around asking after Alex? Anyone suspicious?” Jane asks.

“No. He was a man of few acquaintances. Oh but we did have a break in last night.”

“You did?” Jane says, fixing her with a close look.

“Yeah but nothing was stolen. It was the oddest thing. Alex was still at work…” Julie says, eyes growing misty. Jane puts her hand on the woman’s arm. She sniffs. “There was a message left for him on the answer phone.”

“Who was it from?” Jane says.

“Some woman he works with I think. I could let you listen to it if you’d like?”

“That’d be great, thanks,” Jane nods, and Julie leaves to fetch the phone. She comes back a moment later with the cordless in hand, and presses the button for the messages, most recent. A tinny voice comes through the speaker, and Jane pulls out a pen and her notebook.

_“Oh is that the beep? Alex? Love, it’s Professor Cairns. Listen, you were right, you were bloody right! Give us a call when —”_

The message cuts out there, and Jane looks up from the name she jotted down.

“Professor Cairns?”

“No idea, sorry,” Julie shrugs.

“Can I try a ring back?”

“Well you could, but I’ve had calls since then, sympathy ones, you know.”

Jane sighs coming to another dead end. “You said she works at the gallery with Alex?”

“I have a pamphlet,” Julie says, suddenly remembering. She rummages through the small writing desk in the corner and pulls out a brochure for the planetarium located in the museum just across from Hickman’s. It has the name 'Cairns' written on it in red pen and circled. She folds it up and sticks it in her jacket pocket. Maybe Sherlock would be able to make the connection. Just then Sherlock's mobile irately chirps its text alert from her pocket, and she pulls it out.

_Emperor of Cake — 2:15 PM_  
 _Have you talked to West’s fiancée yet? I am losing patience, Brother._  
 _M_

She almost snorts at seeing the name, but remembers that she’s in the company of a woman who, for all intents and purposes, just lost a close friend. She clears her throat and tucks the phone away.

“Thank you for your time, Julie. You have been very helpful,” Jane says.

“I’m glad to do it. I hope you find who ever did this to him. It’s not right, he never hurt nobody. He didn’t deserve a single thing that happened to him,” she says, sighing and showing Jane out.

Jane gives her condolences and thanks one last time before heading off in search of the main road, mind going over the possible reasons why a simple gallery attendant would have been murdered due to a forged painting, and coming up with absolutely nothing.

She sighs deeply as she slides into the cab, brooding. No Alex Woodbridge didn’t deserve to be killed. The only crime he committed was knowing too much.

Frustrated and hating being idle, she takes out Sherlock’s mobile and jots a text back to Mycroft.

_Sent — 2:28 PM_  
 _What is the fiancée’s address?_  
 _SH_

The response is a swift one:

_Emperor of Cake — 2:28 PM_  
 _Hello, Jane. Might I ask what you are doing with Sherlock’s phone?_  
 _M_

_Sent — 2:30 PM_  
 _How did you know it was me? The phone even does the signature thing._  
 _SH_

_Emperor of Cake — 2:31 PM_  
 _My obstinate brother is rarely so compliant._  
 _M_

Well. That made sense. Bloody Holmeses and their stupid feud. The mobile chirps at her again.

_Emperor of Cake — 2:32 PM_  
 _I assume I should apologise on his behalf for whatever damage your own personal mobile has succumbed to. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you a new one, and it shall be delivered to your apartment shortly. West’s address is to follow._  
 _M_

At least there was that. She shakes her head, muttering “Holmeses,” and she opens the newest message with the address.

***

Jane presses the buzzer again huffing out a foggy breath, growing frustrated that she seemed to hit another dead end. She knocks on the door again for good measure before relenting to the idea that there is in fact, no one home. Blocked at every turn, she decides to hoof it to Battersea in a last ditch effort to glean _some_ information no matter how banal. 

The air is crisp, and it’s only a forty minute walk, but it does wonders for her pent-up energy that she hardly minds the chilly wind nipping at her ears.

By the time she’s being led out onto the tracks by the guard, she’s a great deal more chipper despite having to wear the awkward high visibility pullover that keeps flipping up due to the wind. Wouldn’t do to get hit by a train, after all.

“So this is where you found him?” Jane queries.

“Yep,” the man says a little impatiently. “You, er, you gonna be long?”

“I might be,” Jane says raising an eyebrow.

“So you from the police?”

“Sort of,” Jane says looking up and down the track.

“God I hate them.”

“What the police?” Jane says leveling him a look.

“No. Jumpers. People who chuck themselves in front of trains, selfish bastards,” he grumbles.

“Well that’s one way of looking at it,” she says grimly. She tries to go back to her searching, but the man is apparently intent on ranting.

“I mean, it’s all right for them innit? It’s all over in a second then, — _splat!_ — it’s strawberry jam all over the lines. What about the drivers, hmm? They’re the ones that gotta deal with it.”

Jane frowns and crouches down to touch the rails. “Yeah speaking of strawberry jam…there’s no blood on the line. Has it been cleaned off?”

“No there weren’t that much.”

“You said his head was smashed in,” Jane says.

“Yeah, but there weren’t that much blood,” the man insists.

“Okay…” Jane says dubiously.

“Well I’ll leave you to it. Just give us a shout when you’re off,” the man says grumpily and makes his way back down the line.

“Right,” Jane huffs in frustration. There was something not adding up at all. Jane is no stranger to head trauma, knows what it looks like. It’s ugly, and leaves behind an awful amount of blood. She stands up and paces backwards a few feet, bringing her hands up to the sides of her head trying to visualise. “Okay, so Andrew West got on the train somewhere — or _did_ he?” She walks forward again and turns in a circle. “There was no ticket on the body…so he was killed somewhere else? But how did he end up here?”

Just then the rails switch, sliding into place and the points converge and meld into a different line. “Oh… _oh!”_

“The points,” Sherlock says suddenly appearing behind her, and she jumps. “Knew you’d get there eventually.”

“God, don’t sneak up on me like that, you bloody lurker!” she says swatting him on the shoulder. He chuckles.

“I would have interrupted you sooner, but I will confess it was rather amusing watching you dance around like that,” Sherlock says, tugging her fringe playfully.

“I think you’re rubbing off on me. You always traipse about when you’re thinking,” she rejoins.

“You know my methods, Jane. I’m just glad you’re finally employing them,” he snarks coming closer to her.

She takes the challenge and doesn’t move back even though she has to crane her neck to look him in the eye. She gives him a narrow look, “How long have you been following me?”

“Since the start,” Sherlock says, mouth crooking in a smirk. “You didn’t think I would pass up this case up just to spite my brother did you?”

“You’re impossible,” Jane says, and Sherlock smiles one of his rare smiles only for Jane, eyes particularly green today against the flat afternoon light and positively brimming with excitement. Suddenly he ducks his head and clumsily presses his lips to hers, pulling away with a smack before she could even get her bearings.

“Hm,” Sherlock says looking somewhere off in the distance, a finger against his lips in thought.

“What…was that for?” Jane says feeling her cheeks flush.

“What? Oh. I thought I would try it — erm, that thing you did, just because. You know. At the gallery,” he says suddenly unsure. “Did I do it wrong?”

“No you didn’t do it wrong, come here,” she says, heart bursting with affection for her awkward detective. She pulls him closer by his lapels, her lips hovering over his for a moment. “You don’t have to do these things because you think I want to or because you think you should.”

“But what if I do? Want to, that is,” Sherlock says, eyes growing wide and almost innocent-looking.

“Then that’s just fine also,” Jane whispers.

Sherlock moves in again, rubbing his nose against hers for a moment before capturing her lips tenderly. She reciprocates, and can’t help but sink her fingers into his hair, already mussed from the wind. They’ve only kissed a handful of times now, but Jane can’t help but observe that each one is unique in its own right. It’s indulgent, and she almost forgot what it felt like to kiss and be kissed in return.

Sherlock cups the back of her neck, and winds his other arm around her waist deepening the kiss slightly, nibbling on her lower lip in a way that gives her that pleasant, hazy feeling. She almost doesn’t notice it for what it is, a distraction, until he slips her gun into her waistband, the sneaky git. She breaks the kiss and he gives her a cheeky grin.

“You and your agendas,” she grumbles and goes to push him away. He chases her lips and kisses her one more time, and she doesn’t try very hard to stop him.

“Just because I can multitask doesn’t mean I wasn’t enjoying myself,” he says releasing her.

“Yeah, although now that I think about it, it’s probably not decent that we were just snogging where a man was found dead,” Jane says frowning as they set off back down the tracks.

“Oh decent. When do you care about decent?” Sherlock says flipping up his collar.

Jane can’t help herself and snorts as she concedes the point. “So what’s on the menu, then?” She adjusts her gun to a more comfortable position, making sure her jacket is doing a good job at hiding it.

“Burglary,” Sherlock says gleefully, and rubs his hands together.

***

“The missile defence plans haven’t left the country yet or Mycroft’s people would have heard about it. Despite what people may think, we do still have a Secret Service,” Sherlock says as they get out of the cab and make their way up a residential street. “Which means, who ever stole the memory stick either can’t sell it or doesn’t know what to do with it. My money’s on the latter, although I’m not much for gambling. Ah, here we are.” He trots up a dozen or so steps to an apartment on the upper floor.

“And where is here?” Jane asks. Sherlock ignores her in favour of crouching down and pulling out his lock-pick set. “Sherlock! What if someone’s in?”

“There isn’t,” he says, grinning all the wider. The lock clicks, and Sherlock swings the door open.

“Oh, Jesus,” Jane mutters and follows the nutter after looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was around to see them house-breaking. She closes the door and heads up the short set of steps to where Sherlock was looking through the window on the other end of the small sitting room. “Sherlock, who’s flat is this?”

“Hm? Oh didn’t I say? Joe Harrison’s flat, brother of Lucy Harrison: West’s fiancée. He’s our thief; stole the plans from him then killed him. Obvious.” He drops to one knee and pulls out his magnifier. “Look, there are drops of blood still left over.”

Jane leans over his shoulder and sees that there does seem to be old blood dried on the window sill.

“Why did he kill him?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says straightening. The door suddenly clicks, and Jane can hear a set of voices coming from behind them. “Let’s ask him, shall we?”

 _“Stay back,”_ Jane whispers to Sherlock, grabbing her gun and leveling it out in front of her. She presses herself against the wall just around the corner and tries to garner as much information as she can from hearing alone.

There are two voices, a male and a female, female most likely a civilian in the rear which is good considering if she needs to shoot there is less chance of her being used as a shield if things go sideways.

Her heart pumps the adrenaline throughout her veins, and it is terrible and frightening and oh so glorious.

She turns the corner just as Joe breaches the stairs.

“Don’t!” she says aiming her Sig just as Joe lifts his bicycle as if to launch it at her.

“Joe?! What’s going on?” the woman says dropping the carrier bags at her feet.

“Call the police, Lucy!”

“Not so fast,” Sherlock says flashing them the ID badge he pick pocketed from Lestrade. “We are the police.”

Joe lowers the bicycle in defeat.

“Joe…?” Lucy says, fear and confusion creeping into her face. “What did you do?”

“I — could you maybe stop pointing that thing?” Joe says. 

“All right,” Jane says lowering her gun and clicking on the safety. “Why don’t you both come up here and we can have a proper chat?”

Joe sighs and heads up into the sitting room followed closely by his sister, who warily hovers by the exit with her arms folded across her chest.

“Please, Mr. Harrison. Have a seat,” Sherlock says amenably, and gestures to the mangy sofa against the wall. Joe gives Lucy a remorseful look, and turns back to Sherlock realising that the game is up.

“I didn’t mean to, Lucy love. What ever happens, you’ve got to believe me it was an accident,” he says trying to go to her. She takes a step back.

“Is this about the drugs, Joe?” she says, and his face crumples.

“I got too deep! Everything went wrong, it was an accident, I _swear_ to you.”

“Damn it, Joey!” Lucy says covering her face with her hand.

“I just got out of my depth. I owed people thousands, Luce. _Serious_ people. You have to understand, they were going to kill me!”

“So you decided to kill Andrew West instead?” Sherlock says, the revelation like a clap of thunder, and Jane curses inwardly. _God his timing was truly horrendous._

 _“What?”_ Lucy says going pale due to shock, no doubt. 

“Sit,” Jane says grabbing her elbow and ushering her to the sofa where her knees give out from under her the very next second.

“Explain,” Sherlock says, pointing to Joe.

Joe grimaces and puts his hands on his head, gripping his short tufts of hair in agitation. He lets out a groan of pure agony. 

“It was Westie’s engagement do," he starts, voice cracking, "He – he started talking about his job. Usually he’s so careful, but that night after a few pints he opened up. He told me about those missile plans and well…you hear things, you know? He waved it in front of me, and I figured since he was so pissed, he would think that it ended up lost, ended up in a rubbish bin or something. It was easy getting the thing off him, and I thought it could be worth a fortune. Next I saw him, though, I could tell by his face that he knew.”

“What happened?” Jane says quietly, a gentle hand on Lucy’s back silently monitoring her vitals.

“We got in a bit of a scuffle and he — he fell down the stairs. I was gonna call an ambulance, but it was already too late, so I dragged him back up here and sat in the dark just thinking.”

“When a neat little idea popped into your head,” Sherlock says. As if on cue, a train whistle blows from just outside, and Sherlock moves aside the drape. From her position on the sofa, Jane could see the train pulling up to the station directly below. “You dragged him across the roof and onto the top of the train so it would carry his body far away from here. He would have gone for ages if the track hadn’t curved at the points at Battersea.”

“Oh _god,_ Joe,” Lucy wails, tears falling down her face and into her lap. Joe lets out another anguished sound and collapses on his knees in front of her.

“Please, Lucy! You have to understand. I didn’t mean to kill him, I would never do that to you!” he cries hands coming up to grab her arms.

“Don’t _touch me!_ ” she screams jumping up to her feet. “You killed him, you bastard. And for what? Money?”

“I _didn’t_ kill him!” Joe says trying to go after her as she makes for the door. Lucy spins around and strikes him hard across the face, the resounding crack echoing off the bare walls.

“Yes you did,” she says shaken. “You killed a good man because you couldn’t keep away from the drugs, Joey. You killed _my_ good man.”

And with that, she runs down the stairs and out of the flat.

Silence permeates the room following the sound of the slamming door, and Joe just stares after her, shoulders curving in as he shakes.

Ire laces throughout Jane as she thinks of her own sister, Harry, who had thrown everything away for an addiction just like their father. She has no sympathy for Joe Harrison in that moment, and part of her realises that it's a Bit Not Good, but she doesn’t blame Lucy for the way she reacted. Not one bit.

“Do you still have it? The memory stick?” Jane bites out.

“Y-yes it’s…” he trails off gesturing to the back room.

“Fetch it for me,” Sherlock says in his menacing baritone. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

He nods and goes to retrieve it, and Jane attempts to massage the tension out of back of her neck. “I can’t believe it.”

“I can,” Sherlock says, and Jane’s gaze snaps to him. He’s not looking at her, however, busy staring off in the direction of where Joe disappeared to. 

Before she can even think to respond, Joe comes back however, and hands the drive to Sherlock with shaking fingers.

“Someone will be in touch,” Sherlock says pocketing it. “You’ve seen some pretty sensitive information and need to be debriefed. I should hope you wouldn’t be so stupid as to think there was anywhere you could run to that you wouldn’t be found.”

Joe closes his eyes, swallowing audibly. He backs up until he hits the wall and sinks to the floor.

Jane shakes her head in disgust and follows Sherlock out. 

She makes it about a block before the pent up words fueled with her own rage and hurt rush out of her. “Can someone tell me why is it _never_ bloody good enough?”

“Sorry?” Sherlock says and Jane stops, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“It’s just — Joe! How could he do that to his sister? How? She obviously means -- meant the world to him, but it just isn't good enough.”

“The desperation of an addict knows no bounds,” Sherlock deadpans.

“No I’m serious. Take you for example.”

“Me?” Sherlock says mildly amused.

“Yeah you. You found the Work and it – it became worth something so much more than all that. Why can’t people — why can’t —?” she flounders.

Sherlock regards her curiously, head tilting to the side. “Joe isn’t your sister, Jane.”

“God, I bloody know that, Sherlock!” she erupts.

“Do you?” he challenges. She tosses him a filthy look.

“Oh sod off!” she says stalking past him. He grabs her arm and she shrugs him off but stops, silently giving him permission to continue despite herself.

“Jane. As an addict I don’t know what to tell you to make you believe me when I say that sometimes _nothing_ is good enough.”

She turns to him angry at first, but she deflates when he holds her gaze steady. 

_“Why?”_ she ends up saying. She knows she sounds like a small child, but she can’t help herself. “I mean you found it, you found the Work —” she says again as if this were the answer to something she didn't even know the question to anymore.

“Yeah...the Work…” he trails off, but Jane doesn’t hear over the pounding in her ears.

“ — and it’s enough, and Harry, she had Clara and my Dad he – he had all of us and he still —” she gasps clapping a hand over her mouth. _Oh god. Oh shit. What was she even saying?_

“I don’t know why,” Sherlock starts slowly, “your sister or your father couldn’t see what was right in front of them…but _I_ see it. I do. And I— _blast,”_ he looks away fumbling and losing the thread of his words. He scowls, frustrated with himself. He reaches for her instead, hands on her shoulders, pressing her back down to Earth.

She takes a breath, closing her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect this to get to me like it did…” She leans into him, reveling in the contact. “It’s just, my dad, he eventually got to the point where he stopped caring about everything. And one day he just crawled inside a bottle and never came out, and I just couldn’t help thinking that there was something more I could have done to – to make him _stay._ Here. But nothing I did was good enough then, nor…after.” 

She finally looks up at him, full out expecting to find disdain on his face, because honestly, this was bloody ridiculous. However, peeking up from under her lashes, she is greeted with a sight that completely takes her breath away. 

Instead of the cold stoicism she had come to expect from Sherlock, she finds a startled openness she had never seen before that strikes her to the very centre of her being. His eyes, the colour of the sea, burn low with an intensity that was right on the verge of becoming a conflagration. She feels seared by his gaze, as if he was attempting to cauterise her wounds with the brand of his fingertips pressing into her skin.

She gasps under the sheer magnitude it all and folds, her head coming to rest in the centre of his chest.

His arms come around her, stiffly at first, as if not entirely sure if this is what he was supposed to do. She wraps her arms around him and just holds on amidst the roaring in her head and her heart.

“God,” she huffs after a moment, the vice in her chest finally loosening under the steady pressure of Sherlock's warm body against hers. “Sorry for being such a girl.”

“Mm. Yes. You should apologise,” Sherlock says, and she can hear the smirk in his voice even though she can’t see his face. “Dreadful of you. Truly appalling.”

“Berk,” she says looking up at him, smile wavering, but holding strong.

“Bint.”

“Prat.”

“Is this the part where I kiss you now?”

“Oh you think you’re entitled, do you?” Jane banters, squeezing his waist.

“Isn’t that how this works?” he says arching an eyebrow. “I provide a sounding board to the distress you are attempting to work through. And then to show your gratitude you let me kiss you.”

“Did you get that from a book?” she snorts.

“Everyone got that from a book.”

Jane rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t really mean it. “Oh go on then, if you must,” she says, affecting an air of boredom.

He grabs her chin fixing her with a predatory look, grinning before slanting his lips firmly over hers.

In the back of her mind it occurs to her that for the first time her raw nerves feel less exposed, and maybe it’s because, ironically, Sherlock is the first person to ever truly see past what she shows on the outside and peels her down to her very core.

And what a wonder that is. Painful, yes, but also a wonder.


	13. Planetarium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jane track down the Golem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all you patient people. The flu that's been going around kicked my arse, so sorry this has been slow coming. The next chapter should be up quicker, hopefully, as I am finally starting to feel better, and I am super excited about it. :D
> 
> You all have been lovely, and I hope you like it. Working up towards the end, here kids, so hang on!
> 
> xxHoney.
> 
> *Link in 'Afters' updated finally!

* * *

Sherlock watches Jane from across the table, arms folded across his chest, and legs stretched out in front of him, and observes how she holds her chopsticks (awkwardly in the crook of her thumb, the dexterity for such a task not honed enough) and how she subconsciously hums under her breath when she’s eating something particularly tasty. (He notes that the cucumber roll seems to be her favourite given the humming, and files it away in his Mind Palace.) 

She brings another piece of sushi up to her lips and absently takes a bite, flipping a page in yesterday’s paper they found in the dingy Japanese restaurant they were currently passing the time in. She hums again, and Sherlock’s eyes sharpen as he watches her lick some soy sauce off her lower lip.

This was Jane Watson: unassuming, outwardly good-natured, completely unremarkable at a glance — some would even say predictable, and dismiss her from the start. It wouldn’t be uncommon to do so. After all he made the mistake of doing so himself. But there were many layers to Jane Watson, and Sherlock was realising just how much he _wasn’t_ privy to. It was endlessly fascinating, if not partially unsettling.

Case in point: their previous conversation at Joe Harrison’s rattled Sherlock far more than he would ever let on. It would make sense that she would be shaken by Harrison’s admission, given her family’s history with substance abuse. But the fact that she lost herself for a moment to the emotion she had disassociated herself from for so long, was not lost on him. It harkens to a darker shade of Jane Watson that Sherlock is finding to be somewhat fathomless. 

Of course she has ‘trust issues’, that was inherent, but Sherlock made the other mistake of tossing the phrase around like dross and leaving it by the wayside, over looking it as just that: a phrase. He had heard many of these phrases slung at him by psychiatrists over the years, things like: ‘pathological liar’, ‘textbook narcissist’, ‘high functioning sociopath’. Each one not _actually_ meaning anything, (except the last one; that always made him laugh) because really, a therapist is only interested in what _they_ think you think. God forbid they open their eyes for a change and really _look._

When it all boiled down, however, he was just as much an idiot for doing the same thing wasn’t he? 

Yes, this darkness Jane harboured was one that coloured her words and her actions with such a degree of nuance, that she had everyone fooled that came in contact with her. She nearly had _him_ fooled, but now that he’s finally paying attention, he can see the fissures in her stalwart armour; a tangled mass of cracks tarred over time and time again to prevent structure collapse, and he didn’t know which one ended before another one began. It was too nebulous, but by his estimation, there were a series of at least three major events that impacted her in a fundamental way. 

One, obviously, was the traumatic death of her father who apparently drank himself into a premature grave. The other, if her nightmares were anything to go by, was the circumstances leading up to her being shot in Afghanistan. He only needed to observe her in sleep to know that she suffered great loss, more than the loss of vocation or purpose or value that being in the Army granted her. He heard her many times cry out from the depths of her terror ( _oh god, Bill no!_ ) and it wasn’t hard to connect the dots to a fallen comrade.

But the third event…it was buried deep at the core of her, and for the life of him he couldn’t see through the firewall that she’s wrapped herself in. It was utterly _maddening._

“Sherlock?” Jane says, jarring him out of his thoughts. Her tone of voice suggested she had been trying to get his attention for some time. “That’s a bit creepy now…the staring? What’s going on inside that great brain?”

“What? Oh. Nothing, nothing just…something,” he says waving a hand in front of him in a dismissive manner.

She raises her eyebrows in a patent look that says she isn’t buying it, but before she can needle him, he swipes her last cucumber roll and pops it into his mouth.

“Hey!” she says. “You could have ordered your own.”

“Mm. Not hungry,” he smirks licking his fingers.

“Right,” she says in mock irritation. He knows she secretly loves when he eats while on a case. Some rubbish about his health or whatever.

“Woodbridge.”

“What about him?” she asks turning the paper over and scanning the back.

“Well?”

“He didn’t know anything special about art,” she says.

“That’s it?” Sherlock says impatiently. “No [habits,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2929336) hobbies, personality?”

“No, wait give us a chance!” Jane says. “He was an amateur astronomer.”

Sherlock huffs. Completely useless information. She might as well have told him he collects miniature unicorns for all the good that trivia does. “Useless,” he iterates out loud, wrinkling his nose in disdain. Suddenly he sits up straight in his seat as a figure catches his eye from across the street. It’s Alison, the flicker of blue around her neck standing in her usual post. She’s holding out a paper cup for spare change, and from the restaurant, Sherlock can see her shake it twice, pause, and shake it once more. “Come on,” he says getting up, nearly knocking the chair over in his haste.

Jane wipes her mouth on a napkin, and throws a few notes onto the table, following suit.

“Spare change, sir?” Alison says as they walk up to her.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Sherlock says, and hands her another fifty. She takes it, but when Sherlock pulls his hand back, a folded piece of paper has been pressed into his palm. He walks a few paces away from her before hailing a cab, and only when they both get situated, does he unfold the message. In looping script the words _Vauxhall Arches_ are written across the piece of scrap. “Got your gun still?”

“Yeah, why?” Jane says warily.

“We’re going to catch us a Golem,” Sherlock grins.

***

Sherlock has the cab drop them off a few blocks away from the Arches in order to maintain their discretion. It was cold out, and for a moment, he rues the loss of his scarf and buttons his coat, breath fogging out in a great cloud before him as he huffs at the inconveniences of being a decent human being. He leads them to the entrance of one of the tunnels, leaning casually up against the wall. Jane joins him, tucking her hands into her jacket pockets in order to conserve warmth.

“What are we waiting for?” Jane says.

“We’re waiting for a certain level of anonymity,” Sherlock says. He casts his gaze around, eyes lighting upon various people in the diner across the street. “In just a few minutes’ time we will have blended into our surroundings; appearing innocuous to anyone that might show up in the future, effectively fading into the scenery. The art of a good disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight.”

“Mm,” Jane says, and Sherlock glances at her. She’s not looking at him, however, gazing ahead determinedly. Her lips twist in a wry smirk, and he rolls his eyes.

“Oh god, not that again,” he mutters.

She snickers at this, shaking her head. “I’m just saying! A pipe would complete the whole mysterious detective vibe you’re going for. I might even start a book with all of those little gems if you’re not careful.”

“Maybe you should,” he sneers. “Might teach someone something useful.”

Jane snorts and bumps into his shoulder playfully, and he shoots her a glare. The cold has stained her cheeks a lovely rose colour, and her eyes are roguish and bright. He can’t bring himself to remain irritated at her, and for some reason this is even more irritating. (Sherlock didn’t believe in witchcraft, but there was always something entrancing about Jane, and it caught him off guard at the most inopportune times.)

She sighs and leans back against the wall, looking up at the velvet sky. She smiles wistfully, and Sherlock follows her gaze.

For as bright as London is, it is a remarkably clear night and the dark sky looks positively bejeweled with stars. Sherlock supposes it’s pretty in its own right, regardless of the fact that each glittering point of light is nothing but a giant swirling ball of gaseous compounds spinning idly in space. It’s not even interesting if he thinks about it. Just…balls of gas…spinning, or something. (What did stars even _do?)_

But Jane is looking up at the sky with a look of such quiet awe, that Sherlock gives it another try to see if he can see what she sees.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he ventures. Her eyebrows lift, but she doesn’t look at him.

“I thought you didn’t care about stuff like this?” she says mildly.

Sherlock glances back up at the starry sky. No he didn’t care one whit about the cosmos or nebulas or supernovas or the sun and its current location in the solar system. He is much more interested in the intrinsic, carnal natures of the people on _this_ planet, in _this_ city. Specifically as of late, the enigma standing next to him. 

He observes the soft planes and angles of Jane’s face partially obscured in shadow, the glow from the street lamp glancing off her modest cheekbones and getting caught in her blonde hair, highlighting the more nuanced amber tones woven through out. Her eyes sparkle as she continues to stare at the sky, and Sherlock follows the curve of her chin down to her neck, lingering on the constellation of freckles peeking out just above the hollow of her throat.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it,” he says, and she finally looks at him, her expression curious.

The distant crash of a rubbish bin followed by the sound of broken glass rings out from one of the allies effectively breaking the spell between them, and Sherlock tears his gaze away.

“Let's go,” Sherlock says, tugging up his collar against the chill. “We’ve lingered long enough.” They head down the main tunnel, sticking to the shadows so as not to be seen.

“You think this Golem character is sleeping rough?” Jane intones as they pass a homeless woman curled up on a flattened cardboard box.

“It would be ideal for him to spend his time where tongues won’t wag…much,” Sherlock says. He pulls out a torch and flicks it on. “He has a very distinctive look.”

“You mean like that?” Jane asks, hand flying out to grab onto his coat and drag him around a corner. Sherlock peers around the wall, killing the light as the silhouette of a positively gigantic man stretches out along the brick wall at the end of the tunnel. Jane pulls her gun out of her waistband, holding it at the ready, yet keeping the safety on.

The roar of a car engine can be heard at the end of the tunnel, and suddenly the shadow takes off, the lithe figure flashing past the mouth of the Arches, and Sherlock leaps into action, Jane right behind him.

Their thundering footsteps ricochet off the walls keeping tempo with Sherlock’s heart. He can’t get away, he _can’t._ Chances are he’s on his way back to the Czech Republic. He pushes himself to run faster, but when they stumble into the narrow alley, their efforts are for naught as they are greeted with the sight of retreating tail lights and a nondescript license plate.

“No, no, _no!”_ Sherlock yells kicking the nearest thing he can in frustration, which in this case happens to be a plastic bag full of aluminium cans. “It’ll take us _weeks_ to track him down again, by which he will probably have left the country by then!”

“No. Wait, I have an idea of where he may be going,” Jane says, and Sherlock’s attention snaps to her. She searches her jacket pockets for something, and then the pockets of her jeans before coming away with a folded scrap of paper. A brochure of some sort. He takes it out of her hands the moment she flattens it out. “Alex Woodbridge had a message on his phone the night before he died. See the name?” She points to the name scrawled in pen on the front of the advert for the planetarium. “Can’t be too many Professor Cairns in the phonebook, right? Let’s go.”

* * *

The small museum where the planetarium is located is deserted given the late hour, and Sherlock leads them around to the side entrance, making short work of the lock and deducing the code to shut off the security alarm.

“Shouldn’t we be figuring out where Professor Cairns is?” Jane says as they hurry down the darkened corridors, following signs directing them to the planetarium.

“She’ll be here,” Sherlock says. She just about to ask him how he knows this for sure, when a shattered scream pierces the air. The noise rams straight down Jane’s spine, and her gun is already out at the ready as they tear off in the direction it came from. Every hair on the back of her neck is standing on end, and her senses sharpen to crystal clarity as her body automatically primes itself for combat. 

Another scream lights her nerves on fire, and she can’t make her legs go fast enough.

“Sherlock!” she yells, voice pitching.

“Here!” he says and suddenly whips around a corner, barrelling through a door marked, THEATRE ACCESS. Jane is hot behind him, flicking off the safety, heart pounding hard. They burst out into the dark auditorium, and Jane is immediately assaulted with booming music and the flickering lights of a projector.

 _“…is mainly composed of hydrogen. Their light takes so long to reach us that…”_ the voice of the announcer drops off as the recording skips, and the image being projected at them rewinds frantically. Through the disorientating lights, Jane can just make out the towering frame of a large and terrifying man outlined in silver.

“GOLEM!” Sherlock bellows.

There is a sickening thud, followed by a mad scramble of audio as the recording is rewound yet, again.

 _“…is mainly composed of hydrogen…”_ the narration thunders as it starts up again.

The cacophony is overwhelming, and Jane tries to focus. She levels her gun, but in a sudden flash of darkness the figure ducks out of sight leaving her unable to tell which direction he went.

“Jane?”

“Sherlock, I can’t see him!” she says, scanning her surroundings. The booming voice of the narrator crackles and pops making her ears ring, and the constantly reeling strobe of images cause spots to bleed into her vision.

_“…many are long dead and have exploded into supernovas…”_

She spins around, hearing a muffled crash off to her left.

“Who are you working for this time, Dzundza?” Sherlock yells, circling likewise to try and pin him down. Jane turns to him just as a giant hand clamps over Sherlock’s face from behind.

“Sherlock!” she shouts, aiming the gun at the giant’s head. He makes a short choking sound, as the Golem nearly lifts him off his feet in an attempt to use him as a shield. A large, capped tooth grin crawls across his face, and Sherlock attempts to free himself by clawing at the arm around his neck. “Let him go, or I _will_ kill you,” Jane says both arms straight out in front of her, hands cupping her Sig. She slowly revolves around him trying to find an opening, and he moves in tandem with her, keeping Sherlock between him and her gun.

The man laughs a deep guttural laugh, and Sherlock’s eyes begin to roll back into his head as he begins to suffocate.

There’s absolutely no guarantee that she can make a clean shot without hitting Sherlock, but she has to do something, so she does the next best thing and takes aim.

The warning shot from her gun rises above the din like a clap of thunder. The bullet grazes the assassin, hot steel effectively tearing through his right ear just like she intended. He howls in pain jerking Sherlock upwards once more causing his feet to flail out in front of him. His shoe connects with her hand in the process accidentally knocking the gun out of her grasp and sending it skittering somewhere to the ground. He falls in a heap on the floor coughing and spluttering.

As if on cue, the footage from the documentary cuts out, plunging them all into darkness, and Jane swears loudly, dropping to her knees in search for her weapon. Her hands sweep out in front of her frantically just as the audio track from the film coils tight once again, and the auditorium explodes into light and sound once more.

_“Jupiter is the largest of the planets in our solar system and it is composed mainly of hydrogen just like…”_

“Jane!” Sherlock shouts as the reel restarts itself, and her head snaps up just in time to see all seven-foot-something of Golem lunging at her with a wordless roar. Blood is gushing from the side of his head and he is positively livid, his eyes two fathomless pits of rage as he descends upon her. He grabs her around the throat with one hand, while the other hefts her off her feet as if she weighed nothing, and he throws her into Sherlock just as he picks himself off the floor.

She crashes into him and they both hit the ground in a tangle of limbs. She gasps as the wind is knocked clean out of her, and rolls to her side. 

Sherlock recovers first and is on his feet in moments, squaring off in front of the assassin. He goes for a quick jab to the ribs, but the other man is surprisingly quick for his size, and intercepts Sherlock fist while bringing his elbow down hard on Sherlock’s shoulder. He falls to the floor, and Dzundza is immediately on him, hands crushing the life out of Sherlock yet again.

Jane finally gets her breath, and she doesn’t even think as she races towards them. She simply tackles the man from behind, wrapping her arms as tight as she can around the giant’s neck, futilely trying to wrangle him off of Sherlock. It doesn’t seem to be working, so she bashes a fist into his injured ear, and holds on for dear life.

The Golem roars in pain again, his hands coming up to claw at Jane in an attempt to pry her off. She just holds on tighter, and he tries to bodily fling her off, twisting this way and that.

 _“Dzundza!”_ Sherlock yells at the top of his lungs. Having found her gun, Sherlock fires off another round in warning, but it does little to stop the crazed man. If anything it makes him more violent, and he manages to fling an arm behind him to where he can grab at her shoulder. His fingers clamp onto her old wound like a vice, and she cries out in pain, her hold slackening. He takes the opportunity to peel her off of him, and throws her into the first row of folding metal seats. 

Another shot is fired off just as Jane crumples to the floor, her vision going bright for a moment before flickering out as she spirals down into unconsciousness.

***

Jane startles awake as an ammonia packet is cracked under her nose, the sharp scent tearing her out of darkness and into blinding light. She yells, lashing out on pure instinct and struggles to get away, but strong arms encircle her holding her fast against something solid.

“Jane. Jane!” Sherlock says, lips pressed to the shell of her ear. “You’re safe, I’ve got you. Calm down.”

She stills at this, willing the words to penetrate the dense fog, and she blinks a few times to clear her vision. The anxious face of a paramedic stares back at her, and she looks around the brightly lit auditorium. The police have flooded the planetarium, and Jane makes out the slightly blurry shape of her uncle as he barks out orders. A tarp is draped over a figure near what appears to be a sound booth, and her stomach pitches at the sight. She groans piteously, finally becoming aware of the ache in her shoulder and side, and the arms around her tighten slightly. She registers that the warm length pressed along her back is Sherlock, her wrists in his hands holding her securely to his chest as they sit there on the floor.

“The Golem?” she croaks, limbs trembling.

“Gone,” Sherlock says, and all at once the tension drains out of her.

“Are you all right?” she says, voice wavering.

“I should be asking you that,” Sherlock says. His tone is dull, but she doesn’t miss the thread of concern woven through it.

“Fine,” she licks her dry lips, “M’fine.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the disgruntled paramedic says, and Jane can see a bruise forming along his jaw.

“Did I do that?” she asks, attempting to sit up.

“Yeah, but to be fair, I was warned,” he says taking out a pen torch and shining it into her eyes. She squints, but keeps them open, the pain in her head already beginning to fade.

“Sorry,” she say, a blush creeping up her face.

“I’ve had worse,” he shrugs and holds up a finger for her to follow with her eyes. “You don’t appear to have a concussion. It’s entirely up to you if you want to go to hospital.”

“I’m good, thanks,” she says getting to her feet. Sherlock helps her briefly, a hand around her elbow. The paramedic nods, and packs up his kit before making his way up towards the throng of officers. Jane watches as they place the body into a body bag, zipping it up.

“Was that Professor Cairns?” Jane asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock says with a scowl. He starts up the stairs leading to the Inspector, and Jane follows him.

“All right Janey?” Lestrade says, concerned gaze raking over her.

“Fine, Greg,” she says rubbing the back of her neck. He looks her over once more before nodding, and turns to Sherlock.

“This Oskar Dzundza basically bloody vanished. I have zero leads, and no way to keep tabs on him,” he says.

“He belongs to a vast network of criminals,” Sherlock says jamming his hands deep in his coat pockets. “He’ll probably be half way out of the country by now.”

 _“Damn it,”_ the DI growls, scuffing a hand through his greying hair. 

“Indeed. Professor Cairns was part of the directive Dzundza was given. According to Jane, she and Alex Woodbridge were onto the same thing. Now that she’s dead he has nothing to keep him here.”

“So you’re saying Cairns and Woodbridge both knew the painting's a fake?” Lestrade asks.

“Yes. And finding out why is the key to stopping our bomber,” Sherlock says. “We need to get to Hickman’s. The only way is to confront Miss Wenceslas outright and hope she gives us the answers we need.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Lestrade quirks his brow.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, his expression determined and grim. He simply turns up his collar and makes his way out of the auditorium.

Jane and Greg share a look before she hurries after him, taking the steps two at a time until she reaches the lobby of the planetarium. She catches sight of Sherlock’s coattails as they whip around the corner.

“Sherlock! Wait!” she says, jogging to catch up. She runs smack into Sherlock, and he steadies her, gripping her arms almost too hard to be comfortable. His eyes are wild, and his jaw is clenched, face pale in the dim light. It startles her. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t say anything. Instead he closes his eyes and presses his forehead against hers, fingers continuing to knead where he’s grasping her impossibly tight as if making sure she was still there.

“Hey…it’s all right,” she says bringing up a hand to cup his face.

Sherlock pulls back some and looks into her eyes. “He hasn’t phoned, Jane. He’s broken his pattern. There’s something I’m missing, something I —”

“You’ll figure it out,” she says, cutting him off. “You’re brilliant, and you always do.”

He breathes out a long breath, swallowing thickly. He takes a moment to compose himself, nose pressing into her temple and inhaling deeply. Eventually, she feels him nod against her, his hands making their way down her arms to capture her fingers. She squeezes encouragingly, and he squares his jaw.

“Come on,” he says, and leads them out into the cold night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I have a question... I have a Tumblr, and occasionally I will put teasers and updates on it, but I am really lackadaisical about it because I'm not sure if anyone really cares. But if they are something you guys would like me to do more of I can. I just need to know what the popular consensus is. Just drop me an ask [here](http://oleanderhoney.tumblr.com/) or let me know in a comment! Ta!


	14. Supernova

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You can't just leave well enough alone, can you?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is this chapter as promised, guys. Hope I didn't make you wait too long, and I hope you like it. I've been working up to this one for quite a bit now. You're comments on here and tumblr have been fantastic.
> 
> xxHoney

* * *

“It’s a _fake._ I know it is,” Sherlock snarls, words snapping off at the ends. He drags a hand through his hair as he continues to search on his mobile for subjects like _‘Vermeer Brushstrokes,’_ and _‘Canvas Degradation.’_ He glares at the skyline silhouetted in the painting of what appears to be Delft, Holland in the 1600’s, trying to spot any inconsistencies.

“That painting has be subjected to every test known to science,” Miss Wenceslas says, her eastern European tones heavy with impatient disdain. Her fingers, like talons, curve over her hip bones as she huffs hands coming to rest there arrogantly.

“It’s a very _good_ fake, then,” Sherlock says, gritting his teeth. He whips around to face her, ire thrumming through his blood. “This is you, isn’t it? It’s a fake and that’s why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Miss Wenceslas says. She turns to Lestrade. “Inspector. We open this exhibit in less than an hour. There is still much to do before the unveiling, and I do not appreciate my time being wasted. Now if you would, do you mind showing yourself and your _friends_ out?”

Lestrade levels him an uncertain look. “Sherlock…” he starts.

“You know, it’s interesting,” Sherlock says handing over his mobile to Jane so she could keep searching. He rounds on Miss Wenceslas. “Bohemian stationary; an assassin named after a Prague legend; and you Miss _Wenceslas._ This whole case has a distinctly Czech feel, wouldn’t you say Inspector?”

“I don’t —” she says.

“Alex Woodbridge!” Sherlock shouts cutting her off. She flinches visibly, the name striking a chord. “Your gallery attendant; found strangled to death and dumped in the Thames because he knew something about that painting. What was your motivation? The money? Thirty million quid is an awful lot. Was it you who sent the Golem directly, or did you let someone else handle the dirty work for you?”

“Golem?” she says. Her eyes grow wide as she fights to remain equal parts confused and surprised. So far the obvious guilt is shining through the cracks. His eyes flit to the DI and he can tell Lestrade can see it too.

Before Lestrade can question her further, however, the pink phone in Sherlock’s coat pocket blares as it begins to ring. (No time, _no time_.) He fumbles for it with shaking hands and answers it with the speaker phone on.

Without preamble Sherlock launches into his explanation. “It’s a fake. The painting’s a fake. That’s what this is all about.” He waits, triumphant, but there is only the frightened stutter of breath on the other end. Sherlock groans. “Oh come on! Proving it is just a detail. The painting’s fake, I’ve solved it. I’ve figured it out. That’s why they were killed.” They wait a few beats, but there is nothing but silence, and Sherlock brackets his eyes, a thumb and forefinger to each temple as a frisson of stress crackles down his spine. “Okay. Give me time. Will you give me more time?”

There is another brief silence, and just before Sherlock is about to ask again the person on the other end takes a deep breath.

 _“Ten,”_ the voice of a young boy, scared and choked with tears, echoes through out the empty gallery. Sherlock’s stomach plunges, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“What did he say?” Jane says, voice going shrill.

“Ten, he said ten,” Sherlock says.

_“Nine.”_

“It’s a countdown. He’s giving me more time,” he says and faces the painting again, eyes moving rapid fire.

“It’s a kid. Oh, god it’s a _kid._ Jesus!” Lestrade says pulling out his phone and mashing his fingers into the buttons.

_“Eight.”_

“Sherlock,” Jane says, a sickly pallor coming over her features.

“It’s a fake, I know it is, but how do I prove it? _How?”_ Sherlock says more to himself than anything. He tries to block out everything around him.

_“Seven.”_

Sherlock lashes out to Miss Wenceslas, fury pounding through him. “This kid will die. Do you understand? Tell me why this painting is a fake. _Tell me!”_ The woman blanches, but her lips press together tightly in shock. (Useless.) He makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “No. It has to be me. I have to figure it out.” He paces a few feet away before coming back up to the painting.

_“Six.”_

“Must be possible. Must be staring me in the face. Think!” He brings his hands up to dig his fingers into his temples.

_“Five.”_

“Sherlock. He’s speeding up! The countdown is speeding up!” Lestrade says.

Sherlock does his best to ignore this. “Woodbridge knew. He _knew._ But how? Something, something. What is it?” 

(Gallery attendant, flatshare, blue collar worker, graveyard shift.)

(No. Strike that. Useless information.)

(Known associates: Professor Cairns; Ph.D in Astronomy. Common denominator between the two: the knowledge that got them killed.)

_‘He was an amateur astronomer.’_

(Cairns was at the planetarium when she was killed. Searching for something.)

_‘Jupiter is the largest of the planets in our solar system and it is composed mainly of hydrogen…’_

_‘…long dead and have exploded into supernovas…’_

_‘…their light takes so long to reach us that…’_

(Wait. OH!)

(Rewind.)

_‘…exploded into supernovas…_

Supernovas.

Sherlock’s eyes flash open, and he studies the cluster of stars twinkling above the skyline of the quiet town. _“Oh.”_

_“Four.”_

“In the planetarium!” Sherlock whirls around grabbing Jane’s shoulders for a moment. “You heard it too! Oh that is brilliant. Just gorgeous!” He takes his mobile from her slack fingers.

_“Three.”_

“What’s brilliant?” Jane croaks.

Sherlock rapidly pulls up a search for supernovas appearing in the sky in the mid 1600’s. There are none, and Sherlock feels the anticipation of the solve burning bright, igniting his synapses. “This is just beautiful.”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade barks.

He scrolls through the 1700’s and then finds what he’s looking for when he stumbles across that familiar cluster of dots just under the year 1858.

“Ha!” he says marching up to the painting.

_“Two.”_

“SHERLOCK!”

“The Van Buren Supernova!” Sherlock says into the pink phone.

Silence reigns out through the gallery. A trickle of sweat rolls down the back of Sherlock’s neck.

 _“Please,”_ the little boy sobs. _“Help me I’m scared!”_

Sherlock bows his head, exhaling triumphantly, and holds the phone out behind him where Jane takes it.

“Holy fuck!” Lestrade says wiping a hand over his face.

“It’s not every day a supernova appears in the sky, Miss Wenceslas,” Sherlock says rounding on her. “This one in particular only joined the party in 1858. So, pray tell me, _how_ could it have been painted in the 1640’s?” The woman’s eyes grow wide, and she looks to the DI realising the game is up.

“I – I want to speak to my lawyer.”

“Probably a good idea,” Sherlock says.

 _“Is anybody there?”_ the little boy on the phone says.

“It’s all right, sweetheart. Can you tell us where you are?” Jane says.

 _“Are you…”_ a pause here as the little boy heaves a sob, _“Doctor Jane Watson?”_

Sherlock’s head whips around adrenaline suddenly spiking. Something in the boy’s tone causes a prickling sensation to break out on the back of his neck.

Jane frowns and looks up at him, and Sherlock’s heart pounds loud in his ears. (There was something about this…something he was _still_ missing.) He wants to stop her from answering, but he isn’t quick enough.

“Yes. This is she. We’re coming for you, you just need to tell us where you are.”

“Jane…” he starts, dread filling him. He shoots a look towards Lestrade, and the Inspector’s brows draw together.

 _“I’m su-supposed to tell you…”_ the little boy says, fresh tears starting up.

“What is it, sweetheart? Are you hurt?” Jane says alarmed. The realisation that something is not quite right dawns on her face as well.

_“I’m supposed to say…that this one is for you, little Sparrow.”_

“What —?” Jane says, but before she can ask, a loud popping noise can be heard followed by an almighty roar in the background like the sound of rushing wind. Before any of them can form a thought the line disconnects with a sharp _hiss-snap_ of static, plunging them back into deafening silence.

Jane sucks a sharp breath through her teeth, colour draining from her face, and Sherlock closes his eyes.

“Christ,” Lestrade says finally breaking the spell. “Bloody Christ!” He turns and kicks over a chair, the resulting boom ricocheting off the stark walls. It only takes a minute before his mobile rings, and he shakes his head. He jabs a finger in Miss Wenceslas’s direction. “Don’t you _even_ move. I’ll deal with you in a moment,” he growls before answering the call that no doubt is about the sudden explosion.

Jane is still staring down at the pink phone in her hand, throat working as she attempts to swallow. “I don’t understand…”

The anger at the whole situation finally rears up, and Sherlock makes a guttural noise of frustration, hands fisting into his hair. “It’s not fair! I solved it, damn it! So technically, _technically_ I still won.”

“I’m sorry, _what?”_ Jane says snapping out of her shock. Her faces darkens, her brazen eyes searing into him. “You – you _won?_ Is that all you can think about right now? This _bloody_ game of yours?” She shakes, hand clenching around the phone. “There are, in fact, some things that are more important at the moment.”

Sherlock, unable to bite his tongue due to his own mounting rage erupts, “Like what?!”

“Human life!” she says equally loud, eyes livid with tears of frustration. “A _child,_ Sherlock, a child just —” she chokes herself off unable to voice the horrid reality.

“What does it matter to you?” he says flinging out a hand for emphasis. She winces, slamming her eyes closed. The anger tears at him, makes him see red and taste bile. “Why are you so obsessed with empathy? The lot of you? Where does it get you in the end, hm? You’re acting as if —” he breaks off suddenly, something slowly clicking into place. His rage trickling out of him bit by bit.

_‘…this one is for you, little Sparrow.’_

“He knows about you Jane,” Sherlock says, eyes wide and flicking back and forth as if reading the salient details right in front of him.

“What?” she says combatively, her face still pinched with fury.

“He _knows._ But knows what? It’s something I’m missing. Something you’ve secreted away, buried deep at the well of you,” he says. He brings his hands up prayer-like against his lips.

Jane’s spine straightens, and she shakes her head imperceptibly. Her pupils constrict in fear, and Sherlock knows he’s just on the verge of figuring it out. 

“Sherlock,” she warns, sensing it too.

But Sherlock isn’t listening, too busy recalling everything he knows about her to the forefront of his mind.

(Jane Watson; DoctorSolider, SoldierDoctor; crack shot; can trache someone with a biro in the middle of the desert; invalided home from Afghanistan; trauma —

yes trauma. Fallen comrade. Important, important…Friend? More than just a friend. Lover?)

(Of course.)

(No not just that, it’s too simple. Something more than that; all encompassing.)

(Something buried deep at the well of her.)

“Moriarty preys on the mind; he looks for those little chinks in the armour where he can dig his fingernail in, and tear at your sanity. That’s what he’s been doing with you, Jane. Since the start,” Sherlock says stalking towards her as if she were the case all along. Which perhaps maybe she was.

 _“Sherlock,”_ she says again. He can tell by the tense lines in her body that she it trying her hardest not to take a step back.

“That’s what all of the messages were for; the texts and the blog. He knows about you. That one thing — that one thing inside that you’ve walled off and kept yourself apart from, kept hidden from the light of day just so you can carry on. I should know what this tedium is like, what _pretending_ is like. Better than anyone. I know that sometimes you can almost convince yourself that everything’s fine in the end, but that chasm inside you is always there, festering under the surface like a gangrenous wound. It’s the foothold he’s been biding his time for.”

“Leave it,” she bites out, voice wrecked and failing yet no less dangerous.

“He said, ‘this one’s for you,’ Jane,” Sherlock says coming closer, and her fists ball up of their own accord. “What did he mean by that?” He searches her face, going over the data once more.

(This one was different. Pattern broken. He broke the rules yet again, the answer not even mattering in the end. It was his intention all along to set off that bomb.) 

“The murders didn’t matter. Woodbridge and Cairns didn’t matter. This one was for you. Now tell me. What is it? What am I missing?” Sherlock says looming over her. If he could, he would dissect her piece by piece with his gaze.

“Back off, Sherlock,” Jane says through gritted teeth. “I’m warning you. _Leave it.”_

“This could be the answer to everything!” Sherlock shouts losing his patience and grips her hard by the shoulders. “This could help us find him!”

“It really couldn’t,” Jane says darkly.

“How do I know unless you tell me!”

The pink phone suddenly rings again, and Jane tears out of his grasp. Without thinking, she hurtles it against the nearest wall causing it to shatter upon impact. Miss Wenceslas gasps, and Jane turns on her heel marching towards the exit. 

“Jane?” Lestrade says, finally done with his harried conversation on the other end of his phone. He looks between all of them, confused.

Sherlock darts him a look to shut up, and he catches up to her and grabs her arm. She whips around and the look she gives him is gravid with fear and devastation, and something about it has him coming up short.

He’s seen her look like this before. It was few and far between, and if he hadn’t seen this very look only a couple of weeks prior, he would have dismissed it entirely, chalking it up to her emotions running on overdrive.

But what gives him pause is the fact that he has seen this expression fairly recently, and his scientific mind which was always on the hunt for patterns and permutations picks out exactly where he observed this particular combination of outrage and pain.

The Louisa Mendleson case: a little girl found in a cupboard hiding from her deranged father who had just killed her two twin sisters then abducted her and her mother to serve, what he thought at the time, penance for his sins.

 _‘How could anyone do that to a child?’_ Jane had asked him, sounding sick and lost. This case rendered her defeated like no other because there was something terribly _specific_ about it.

Following that nascent thread like a beacon, he takes his memory back further to the first day they met, a whirlwind of danger and intrigue, and the case that started it all — the serial suicides, the pills, the insane cabbie, the woman in pink, Rachel —

His honest confusion when he flung out, _‘It’s not due to some misplaced guilt; she was a serial adulterer! Why would she still be upset about her still-born daughter?’_

And then, the look of utter devastation on her features as his careless words delivered their blow. How stupid of him not realise the fathomless depths of Jane then and every instance afterward. How unbelievably _dense_ of him.

_‘…this one is for you, little Sparrow.’_

“That’s what it is isn’t it?” Sherlock says, and Jane tries to twist out of his grasp. He holds her tighter, the potency of this revelation making him vibrate with it’s intensity as everything he knew about her was suddenly coloured in a different light. “You had a _child.”_

Jane can do nothing but gasp, the air harsh as she draws it into her lungs. She’s shaking her head now, trying to block out his words, and some part of Sherlock’s brain that’s not wrapped up in the thrill of his deductions knows he needs to stop now, that this is quickly becoming Very Not Good Indeed. But that small sliver of him is completely capsised by the facts spooling out in front of him.

“Sherlock…” Lestrade says coming towards him, but Sherlock is hardly aware, subsumed in the rush of what he sees before him.

Jane, unassuming Jane, has lived a lifetime of war and loss that has made her reckless and addicted to danger and brutal towards the villainous. And oh so incredibly… _incandescent._

“You had a child,” he continues, ignoring when she flinches. He holds her tighter with both hands clasped around her arms expecting her to run, but she almost seems to go limp, her eyes cast to the ground. The alarm bells in Sherlock’s head go off, but he pushes them aside, fit to burst if he doesn’t let his deductions out. “That’s the real trauma. Not the gunshot, not the fallen comrade-cum-lover. Was it his? Bill Murray? You shout about him in your sleep, I’ve heard you. He was the one…of course you were held captive most likely because you were a doctor and seen to be of use. The insurgents who took you wouldn’t waste your skills. You must have thought you were never getting out of there, and so being scared and under the impression you were most certainly going to die, you found comfort in each other.”

 _“Sherlock!”_ Lestrade says grabbing his shoulder trying to pull him away, but Sherlock shrugs him off giving Jane a little shake.

“You didn’t know did you?” Sherlock says reading the answer in the lines in her face, the unbearable pain in her earnest eyes. “You didn’t know until after. You lost it due to sickness and injury, and that’s why Moriarty set this up for you. For you to lose this again, repeating the single worst instance of your life.” He finishes, the details snapping in place and completing the tapestry of Jane Watson before him. It is a beautiful picture, a broken one, but resplendent in all that she is. His Avenging Angel, his healer and warrior, and the very heart of humanity itself. _“Tell me I’m right.”_

She finally looks at him then, and the look of betrayal in her red-rimmed eyes finally registers, the reality of what he’s just done crashing into him. He releases her immediately, and her head bows forward, hand shielding her face as she literally crumbles before him.

She doesn’t cry. She merely breathes deep gulping breaths as if the air has been robbed from her. As if _he_ was the one who stole it from her. This is somehow worse, because Sherlock is the one responsible for the raw pain unfolding in a tableau before him, and he has no one to blame for this but himself.

“Jane,” he says, faltering. Too far. He always took it too bloody far. He needed to figure out how to make this right. (Make it right you insufferable arse before you lose her.) He tries to reach out to her, “I didn’t mean —”

 _“Don’t!”_ she says when his hand comes in contact with her. She takes a step back, shoulders shaking, silent tears staining her cheeks. “What? You didn’t mean to? Yes you did, Sherlock. Yes you did.”

“I —”

“You can’t just leave well enough alone, can you?” she screams, voice filling the empty space. The thready pitch in her tone rings harshly against his ears, the viscera of it piercing him. She closes her eyes, a sob escaping her, and she bites her lip hard until the sob unravels into a broken laugh. “Well. There it is, then. Nine months of trying to forget about — what did you call it? — ‘the single worst instance of my life,’ and you’ve gone and blown it wide open. I never thought this is what it would feel like to have my life strewn out and vivisected like this. I actually thought there would be more pain involved.” She tries to make this a joke, but the hitch in her breath shows the truth; she is breaking.

“Oh, Janey,” Lestrade says trying to go to her, but like a frightened animal she backs up further, holding a hand out to ward him off.

“I need…I need to leave,” Jane says her words hushed and hollow, eyes darting around for the exit. “Tomorrow. Whatever you need of me, first thing I promise, Greg. I can’t stay here.”

Lestrade’s brows knit together, and he nods. “All right. We’ll take it from here.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice, and she shoves past Sherlock, intent on booking it out of the gallery.

“Jane!” Sherlock says, and tries to go after her. Lestrade holds him back.

“Leave it. Christ, Sherlock,” he says. “You’ve done enough, yeah? I still need you to make a statement because now there’s another murder involved.” He swallows harshly, teeth grinding together.

“The blast…” Sherlock says, eyes still glued to the space where Jane was a moment ago. “Any survivors?”

“No. Not according to Sally. A whole block of flats, destroyed. They’re estimating at least twelve dead. It’s a fucking disaster.”

“It’s not over yet, Lestrade,” Sherlock says, finally looking at the DI. “There’s one more pip left.”

“God, when will it end?” the Inspector says pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighs and makes his way over to the stunned gallery proprietor. “Come on. You’re coming with me.” He snaps the cuffs around her wrists and escorts her out. “Are you going to ride with, or are you going to take a taxi?”

“I’ll follow behind,” Sherlock says pulling out his mobile. “There’s something I have to do first.”

“All right,” Lestrade says wearily, and makes his way out with Miss Wenceslas.

Sherlock’s fingers tremble, and it takes everything in him not to run out and catch up with Jane. But Lestrade was right. He had done more than enough, and it was just going to keep getting worse unless he put an end to this tonight. Cut the head off the snake, as it were, to prevent any more damage. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the flash drive, twirling it around in his fingers. 

He would have to be blind not to notice that this whole production, this whole song and dance, was about this seemingly harmless bit of plastic and silicone.

He pulls up his blog and rapidly types out:

_Found. Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The pool, midnight._

It was time to end this.

He hits send.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _For the anon on Tumblr who had a shit day. Hope this makes up for it. :D_


	15. Poppet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The strings are tied to her wrists, and a length of wire affixed to her spine like a doll festooned in Semtex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the latest chapter you wonderful people! I hope you all like it!
> 
> xxHoney

* * *

Air.

There suddenly wasn’t enough goddam air in all of London, and Jane couldn’t breathe until she was out of that gallery. She sprints the rest of the way until her palms hit the double doors, and she breaks out into the frigid night.

She pulls in a heaving gasp through her mouth, doubled over with her hands on her knees, the tear tracks and sweat cooling rapidly on her face. She only gives herself a second or two before she takes off running again, putting as much distance between her and Sherlock as she could lest he come after her.

She couldn’t face him. She just couldn’t.

God her chest felt like it was going to cave in on her, and there was a roaring in her head that had nothing to do with the rushing wind or the blood pounding through her veins.

So she runs.

She runs so she can feel the pain and exertion in her limbs and not in her heart.

She runs so she doesn’t have to think about — about —

She gasps again, her lungs burning, and she careens down an alley. Her foot catches a pile of old rubbish and she falls hard to her knees on the pavement, the heels of her hands skidding along the ground. The loose gravel bites into her flesh, and she balls up a fist flinging herself to her feet as rage explodes behind her eyes. She whips around with a frustrated roar and pounds into the brick wall until she loses count and her hand is numb, and every exposed nerve is all but cauterised. Exhausted, she sinks to her knees again, her head against her forearm leaning against the wall for support. Her whole body throbs like a bruise, and she can’t stop her shaking.

Tentatively, she wraps her other arm around her midsection. The bone weary ache of incredible emptiness overwhelms her, and she is rocketed back into the past where she woke up in that hospital and realised just what it was she had lost.

Sherlock was wrong about one thing, though. She had known. Of course she did, she was a bloody doctor. But that made it all the worse in the end; to have a tangible piece of hope growing inside of her, finally getting used to the possibility of this new future spanning out before her, and then the devastation of having it ripped gracelessly from her fingers. She never really entertained the idea in her youth, her ambitions taking the top priority, and she foolishly assumed she’d have time for all of that later. Plenty of time.

But she was damaged now, and through it all, that’s what was _really_ the kicker. 

It was this gaping reality which used to set her off in the Tesco waiting behind a woman and her toddler sitting in the trolley, a chubby hand waving at her over his mother’s shoulder — that would force her to leave the queue at the bank as she watched a little girl in a checkered dress admire her black patent shoes. It was the feeling of never having again; of a loss so profound that the very fissures of it rent her down to her very marrow, wrapping around her heart like gnarled tree roots choking her until there was no air. No light, ever again.

It was too painful for her to reconcile so she did the only thing she could to survive. She locked it up tight and buried it in the cold ground.

But now that part of her has been blasted wide open, and _god does it fucking hurt._

She finally lets the tears flow, muffling the wracking sobs clawing their way out of her chest with her hand clasped tight over her mouth as she sits on her knees in the grimy alley. The grief wraps itself around her, cold fingers tearing open her ribs as if breaking off brittle branches, a sudden frost killing everything tentative and new she had worked for. Had hoped in.

She has never felt so raw, and in this dark corner of the world she lets out the pain through her bitter weeping for the first time since Afghanistan.

By the time the tears subside, she is hollow and drained, and it is with stiff joints and a sick heart that she rises slowly to her feet.

She flexes her left hand, cringing as the dried blood on her knuckles breaks open again. She was an idiot for doing that, and she jams it into her jacket pocket. She was cold and tired, but she didn’t want to go back to Baker Street just yet.

The thought of staying over at Stephen’s for the night crosses her mind, but she dismisses the notion when she remembers that she doesn’t have a phone anymore, and she is too English and polite to simply drop in at this late an hour. Instead, she sets off walking, glad for the mindless task and the cold weather to keep her numb. 

She has no direction or purpose except to keep putting one foot in front of the other, only just enough awareness not to get herself lost in the bowels of London in the middle of the night.

The wind picks up, and the stale damp air from a pub across the street buffets her making her nose wrinkle. There was shouting from somewhere down the block behind her, and what sound like a slamming door. She tucks her jacket around her even tighter, and continues around a corner to a much quieter street. After a few paces, the sound of retching and sobbing greets her as she passes an alley causing her to slow her steps.

“P-please! Anyone?” a weak voice calls out, and Jane looks over her shoulder coming to a stop, her conscience warring with her. She really didn’t want to play the good Samaritan at the moment. “Anyone?”

She huffs turning around, the doctor and soldier inside her winning out in the end. “Hello?” she says entering the squalid alley. A young man in a large hoodie and torn denims is leaning with his back against the wall, doubled over, his face shadowed. “Do you need help?”

“Yes,” he wheezes looking up. His nose is bleeding, and his face is pale with pain. “I was mugged. They – they took my mobile and my wallet.” He winces, holding his ribs.

“Here, I’m a doctor. Why don’t you go ahead and take a seat and perhaps we can get you a cab,” Jane says helping him sit down on the ground.

“Thank you,” he says sucking in a sharp breath. “They just kept kicking me.”

“Does it hurt very much to breathe?” she asks palpating his side.

“Not too bad,” he says, and Jane frowns. She doesn’t feel anything too out of the ordinary, so they were probably only fractured.

“I think you got off lucky,” Jane says looking up at him. He smiles gratefully, and Jane tilts her head, recognition sparking. “Have we met before?”

“You look familiar too…” the man says, his smile growing wider. “I thought it was just me.”

“No it’s not just you. I’m pretty sure we know each other,” Jane says with a smile that’s half-hearted at best. “Here let me help you up out of this alley.” As gently as she can, she helps him to his feet. 

“My name’s Jim.”

“Oh. I know you,” Jane says, the pieces finally falling into place. “You’re Molly Hooper’s boyfriend.”

“That’s right,” Jim says. He stumbles a little, and Jane loops one of his arms around her shoulders. “And you’re Doctor Watson.”

“Yeah. Small world, huh?” Jane says.

“Tell me, Doctor Watson,” Jim says stopping. “How is Sherlock getting on with the case?”

“Oh he’s…well you know. Working away,” Jane says trying to steer them onwards. Jim doesn’t budge.

“What’s he like to work with?” Jim asks, a gleam in his eye. “I bet it’s brilliant.”

“Er, yeah,” Jane says becoming irritated. “Look we should really get you to the main road and look for a taxi so —”

“Oh right! Sorry,” Jim says bashfully. “It’s just…these bombings. Dreadful business, absolutely dreadful.”

It’s Jane’s turn to stop now, and she looks at him curiously. Something in the way he was carrying on niggled in the back of her mind. “Right…”

Suddenly, before either of them could say anything else the tinny bass guitar of a ring tone cuts through the quiet.

_“Ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh, stayin’ alive! Stayin’ alive! Ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh, stayin’ aliiiiveee!”_

Jane looks at him confused, and Jim closes his eyes in irritation, his whole demeanour changing right before her in an instant. 

“I thought…you said your phone was taken?” Jane says.

“It looks like we’re going to have to do this the hard way,” Jim says ruefully. His accent abruptly drops from a rough London one to a lilting Northern Irish, and his eyes glint maliciously. Jane gasps, recognising the voice, and shrugs his arm off from around her. Before she can do anything else, however, his hands dart out and wrap around her throat shoving her hard into the brick wall to their left. Her head smacks the surface, and dazed, she slides down to the ground. Tiny bursts of neon light rupture before her as her poor brain is rattled mercilessly for the second time that night. She wants to get up, but everything is spinning, and Jim is crouching down inches away from her face, hands back to squeezing the life out of her.

The phone rings for the second time, and with a snarl, he pulls it out of his pocket.

“Hello?” he says with a scowl. Jane claws at the hand clamped around her throat, dark spots invading her vision. He was deceptively strong, and held her fast with one hand while he pressed the phone to his ear with the other. “Yes of course it is! What do you want?”

There is a pause, and Jane struggles for breath, but her windpipe is being crushed unforgivably. 

“SAY THAT AGAIN!” he suddenly roars, face contorting in hatred. “Say that again, and know that if you are lying I will find out, and I will _skin_ you.”

The last thing Jane sees is his livid eyes, two points of glittering coal, burning into her before she loses consciousness.

***

Jane is violently torn awake by a cold slap against her cheek. She flinches, and her bad shoulder screams in protest, tearing a strangled yelp from her. Her hands are bound behind her back, connected not just around her wrists, but her elbows too like some sort of trussed up bird, causing her arms to be wrenched back to an excruciating degree.

She kicks out at her captor from her place on the ground with a feral yell, only to be stilled again by those clammy fingers around her neck as that sharp, cruel face of Jim Moriarty swims into her vision.

“Stay still, little Sparrow,” Jim says with a jagged smile. Her stomach roils with nausea at the pet name, and she struggles while he forces her head to the side and jams a plastic earpiece into her ear.

“What do you want with me?” she snaps as he releases her. She slumps against the wall of the dark corridor she was in and shivers. She was feeling weak and watery, and somewhere along the way her jacket was taken from her. The cold cinderblocks against her back were bleeding through her thin cardigan, and she swallows roughly, the walls of her throat sticking together.

“Haven’t you figured it out by now?” Jim says in a cloying voice. “I want to see you _destroy_ yourself.”

“Why? I’ve not done anything to you. I’m not —”

He grabs the back of her neck and reels her close. “You’re not Sherlock Holmes, no,” he says finishing her sentence, his voice dangerous like a blade. “You’re nothing like him, and yet…there _is_ something alluring about you.” He grips the hair at the base of her skull and pulls her head back. He inhales along her jaw line and down her throat. “Apples? How coy. Didn’t anyone tell you not to be a tease?” She feels something wet against her pulse, and she realises the psycho is tonguing her.

 _“Fuck off!”_ she spits and tries to head-butt him. He only yanks her head back more.

“Oh ho! How feisty! I can see why he likes you! Tell me, has he had you yet? Or is he holding out for someone who isn’t a whore?” His other hand drifts to her inner thigh, stroking lightly, and she closes her eyes and actively tries not to vomit. Although, now that she thinks about it, it would be satisfying to dirty the bastard’s poncy suit. She wonders how much time has passed if he had the time to change out of the grungy clothes she found him in.

Before she has a chance to do anything, however, the door off to her left opens with a metallic wail. Jane twists slightly, and sees a tall man with shaggy brown hair enter with a green parka in his hands. The door swings shut, and she is able to make out the sign posted to the front that say ‘POOL’. _Where the hell was she?_

“Everything’s in place, Jim,” comes the man’s gruff voice. Jim crooks a smile and rises to his feet.

“Come over here and help me with our little song bird, Butch,” Jim says, and Jane is suddenly being hoisted unceremoniously to her feet by the sasquatch, her shoulder burning in agony causing her vision to blur. “Butcher, this is the Doctor I’ve been telling you about. Now we just need the Baker and Candle Stick Maker and we’ll have collected them all. How delightful.”

Jane swallows back the bile in the back of her throat. This man was literally insane, and his dark eyes and wide smile made her skin crawl as they rake over her from head to foot.

He flicks out a silver switch blade, pricking the tip of his finger. He makes a face and sucks on it before smiling again. “Sharp.” He walks behind her and cuts the bindings around her arms freeing them from their torture. She nearly sobs at the relief of it, but doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction, so she bites her lip instead. “Now I should hope I don’t have to explain to you what comes next. You should be familiar with the procedure by now.” She’s roughly manhandled into the parka that upon further inspection is actually part jacket and part bomb vest, and was buckled and zipped tightly across her chest. The feeling of intense claustrophobia grips her adding to her already increasing hysteria welling inside. She bites it back, however, and focusses on clearing her mind.

“What’s your plan then? Are you just going to blow me up too unless Sherlock can figure out your next little puzzle?”

“No more puzzles. Oh no, no, no. No, my dear we are at our end point. The brilliant conclusion to our little production. The finale! And your love, your prince, will be just in time for the curtain call.”

“He’s not my prince,” she argues, gritting her teeth. “You can’t just move us around like some pieces on a chessboard. That’s not how it works.”

“THAT IS EXACTLY HOW IT WORKS!” he thunders, mood shifting like quicksilver. “You don’t understand what it’s like to finally find something in this dull, grey world that actually surprises you for a change. Gets your attention, and forces you to stand over the chasm of your insanity and finally laugh in the face of it! Because this, my dove, this is the only thing that makes sense and it is there especially for you like a pyre to set your sins aflame.”

Jane straightens her spine, refusing to be cowed by this mad man. “You’d be surprised how much I understand in the end.”

“I bet you would just love to think that, wouldn’t you?” Jim says, voice dropping low. He leans in close to her, and she can smell peppermint on his breath. “I bet you would just love to think that you’re the other half of that great brain. His frumpy doctor here to make him _human._ You’re wrong. Don’t you see he’s better _without_ you? What he really needs is an equal. Not a lap dog.”

“And you think you’re his equal, is that it?”

“It wouldn’t be mutually assured destruction if I wasn’t. There’s only one way this can end,” he says drawing out the last word. “There’s only ever been one way.”

Like a viper he strikes, pressing his mouth hard against hers, holding the back of her head to keep her from getting away. She struggles against the man holding her, and does the only thing she can and sinks her teeth into his lip. Jim staggers back with a crooked smile, teeth red.

“Good!” he gasps, wiping his mouth and examining the scarlet on his fingers. “I like when they fight.” He laughs long and loud, high skittering tenor bouncing off the walls. He pulls out a phone identical to the pink one Sherlock had, and unlocks the screen. He calls it with another mobile, and answers it. “It’s almost time to make your entrance, my pet.” He plugs the end of the earpiece into the jack, and slips the pink phone into the inside pocket of the vest, patting it lightly. “Now you remember the rules,” he says into his mobile, and the echo of his serpentine voice drills into her ear, “exactly what I say, or we all go up.”

She’s about to snarl back at him, rage boiling in her blood, but before she can a very familiar voice can be heard just on the other side of the pool doors.

“I’ve brought you a little ‘getting to know you’ present!” Sherlock calls out, and Jane feels the colour drain from her face.

“You bastard!” she chokes out, fear thundering through her.

“Ah, ah!” Jim says gripping her jaw before shoving her away. “Not one word.” The man named Butcher releases her, and pushes her roughly towards the doors. “Now be a good little Sparrow and wait for your cue.”

Jane trembles as she waits on the other side of the doors, the sound of Jim’s shoes receding. Jane can hear Sherlock’s footsteps too, hard soles on the tiled poolside, and her blood turns icy.

“Oh that’s what all this has been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from _this.”_

The voice in her ear makes her flinch. _“All right, my doll, my poppet. Hands in your pockets…now let him see you, beautiful.”_

She pushes open the doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh cliff hanger I know! I am terrible! The chapter was just getting too long and it broke off nicely. Don't hate me too much? heh heh.


	16. Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gottle 'o geer, look who we have here...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE SCENE YOU HAVE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR.
> 
> That is all. 
> 
> I love you guys. The response from this is amazing. I think there's probably one more chapter to go.
> 
> Special thanks to Linds, Az, and Cecelie for letting me bounce ideas around. You are a tremendous help.  
> xxHoney.

* * *

“Evening,” comes a steady voice from behind him, and Sherlock whips around at the sound lowering the memory stick he was holding up.

For a full ten seconds, Sherlock’s brain grinds to a crashing halt as he tries to process the scene in front of him. Jane is standing by the side of the pool, dressed in a thick winter coat, standing stiffly at attention. She raises her chin in defiance, her countenance cold, and blinks rapidly.

“This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?” she says, eyes gleaming lambent in contrast with the flickering water.

“Jane…what the hell?” he mutters. His brain jump starting, kicking into over drive, running through every possibility he overlooked that could have pointed to the improbable. The fact that Jane, (Jane!) had fooled him so thoroughly from the very start of their acquaintanceship causes his breath stick in his throat. (How, _how?_ How the bastarding buggering _fuck_ did he miss this?) He scans the room as if the answer was somehow written on the wall.

“Bet you never saw _this_ coming,” she says, voice flat. Sherlock’s eyes snap to her face. There was something he was missing, and he forces himself to be still and _observe_ through the howling tempest in his head. Her face is a mask, and her words are starched, but her eyes are pleading with him. He slows down and spots the earpiece coiling around her ear, and the pressure loosens in his chest. She blinks rapidly again, and he’s able to make out S.O.S. relayed to him in Morse.

 _“Jane,”_ he says, the word like agony as it leaves his lips. (What had he got them both into?) He takes a step towards her, but her eyes grow wide in fear and he stops in his tracks.

“What…would you like me…to make her say…next?” she says, and takes her hands out of her pockets so she could move the jacket aside, revealing the Semtex underneath. She closes her eyes. “Gottle ‘o geer. Gottle ‘o geer,” she opens them again, face twisted in a bitter grimace, and Sherlock can just make out the harsh bruising around her throat. “Gottle ‘o geer.”

“Stop it!” He feels sick.

“Nice touch, this:” Jane continues in a voice that’s not her own. (It’s wrong, so wrong.) “the pool. Where little Carl died.”

 _“Stop,”_ he seethes.

“I stopped him. I can stop Jane Watson too,” Jane says, the words falling out of her mouth and onto the floor in a dull staccato in the empty pool. A flicker of red travels over her front, dancing mockingly in the centre of her chest. “I can stop her heart.”

Sherlock spins around frantically, trying to locate the source of the sniper. Above him is a darkened spectator gallery overlooking the water. “Who _are_ you?” he shouts to the high glass ceiling. If he could make the anemic moonlight filtering in through the skylights brighter, he would.

The door at the far end of the pool opens with a squeak, and a voice floats out from the dark corridor beyond.

“I gave you my number. Thought you might’ve called.” A man in a bespoke suit saunters into the light with his hands in his trouser pockets, a dejected pout on his lips. He stops at the far corner of the pool. “Although…is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you happy to see me, too?”

Sherlock pulls Jane’s Sig out from the back of his waist band and aims it at the bastard’s smarmy face.

“Neither,” he growls.

The man arches a sharp eyebrow, and his grin grows wider. “James Moriarty. Hiii!” he says, inflecting the word into a little trill at the end. Sherlock grits his teeth, and holds his ground as Moriarty continues to walk towards him. Moriarty frowns. “Jim? From the hospital? Hm. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? Well I suppose that was rather the point.” He rolls his head to the side and back again as if working out a crick in his neck. “Do you like what I’ve set up here?”

Sherlock glances at Jane, the red laser flickering over her heart, and scowls.

“Don’t be stupid. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like to get my hands dirty.” He stops again, and rocks up on the balls of his feet. “I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock…just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see. Like you.”

Sherlock scoffs. “‘Dear Jim, will you fix it for me and get rid of my lover’s nasty sister’?” he quotes from an old television show he had vaguely known about in his youth. The reference seemed apt. “Dear Jim, will you fix it for me to disappear to South America’?”

“Just so,” Moriarty says proudly.

“A Consulting Criminal,” Sherlock says unable to tamp down his glee at having figured it out from the start. “Brilliant.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Jim says taking a few more steps towards him, hands still nonchalantly folded in his pockets. “No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will.”

“I did,” Sherlock volleys, ratcheting back the hammer on the Sig with a deft flick of his thumb.

Moriarty regards the weapon dispassionately. “You’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my _way.”_

Sherlock smirks. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Yes you did.”

“Yeah okay maybe I did. But the flirting’s over now Sherlock, Daddy’s had enough!” he sing-songs.

“Is this the part where I offer you military secrets so you will spare our lives?” Sherlock drawls bored, but keeps the gun trained on him.

“No, no. This is the part where I entice you, my dear,” Jim says. He spreads his hands out on either side of him. “I’ve shown you what I can do. I’ve cut all those people loose, even let go of thirty million quid like it was nothing. Because you see, money is no object when the world is literally at your fingertips. I’ve done all of this just to get you to come out and play. Aren’t you just the tiniest bit impressed?” Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but a muscle in his jaw tics. “I’ve built an empire from my bare hands. Nothing is off limits.”

“People have died,” Sherlock says.

Jim scoffs, and in a partonising tone says, “That’s what people DO!”

The last word is roared at the top of his lungs, and Jane flinches despite her stoic appearance. Her left shoulder is hitched at an odd angle, and she trembles with a closely contained pain. Sherlock casts his gaze over her, but she refuses to meet his eyes. He swallows roughly, and silently pleads with her to look at him. (He would get them out. He didn’t know how, but he would.)

“I'm sorry, am I _boring_ you?” Jim snaps, appalled that his attention is elsewhere, and Sherlock flashes to him. “Ah yes of course,” he says, words like a snake as he slithers a few more paces towards them. “People really do get so sentimental about their _pets.”_

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asks Jane quietly, ignoring Moriarty. She looks up at him through her lashes.

Jim snickers and leans over her shoulder. “You can talk, Janey. Go on,” he goads.

“I’m okay,” she whispers.

“So obedient, isn’t she? Ever the soldier,” Jim twines his finger around a lock of her hair and brings it up to his nose. He makes a show of inhaling deeply, and Jane shudders, closing her eyes.

Sherlock fights to keep his temper in check even though he is just a fraction away from placing a bullet right between his eyes. His brain keeps pounding out signals such as _touching, he’s touching her, he’s TOUCHED her before, where did he touch her I’m going to fucking kill him, get his hands off off OFF!_ and with everything he has, he wills the fury to fade from his vision. He takes a slow breath.

“I have loved this, though,” Moriarty continues dropping his hand. “This little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT,” he slips back into his dumpy London accent, “playing _gay._ Did you like the touch with the underwear?”

“What is your end game? You’re not going to blow us up, that much is obvious. Do you really think I won’t stop you?” Sherlock says, voice confident as he attempts to call out his bluff. (The scary thing is, however, Jim Moriarty might just be insane enough to do precisely that.)

“You won’t. Why would you stop me when you can join me?” Sherlock frowns. “Oh ho? Some one hasn’t been paying attention, Sherlock. What do you think I’ve done all of this for?”

“Take it. I don’t want any part of this,” Sherlock says holding out the flash drive. With any luck, Mycroft would already be informed about the whereabouts, and he wouldn’t serve too much time for treason. If he was charged so be it if it would only get Jane out of that damnable vest.

“Hm?” Jim says walking forward. He takes the memory stick and smiles. He kisses it preciously. “Yes. The missile defense plansss.” He licks his lips, and eyes Sherlock from head to toe. “Boooring!” he says and flicks his wrist sending the stick to the bottom of the pool without a second glance. “I could have got them anywhere.”

Just then, Jane explodes from her statue-esque stance and wraps both arms around Moriarty in a secure hold, pressing herself as firmly against him as she could.

 _“Sherlock, run!”_ she cries, and Sherlock lurches back in shock. 

( _No._ No, no, no, no, no. Oh god, no.)

He whips around, trying once more to place the sniper, but to no avail.

“Oh _good!”_ Jim chortles, staggering back a little as she wrangles him. “What a little surprise she turned out to be, didn’t she?”

“If your sniper pulls that trigger, we both go up you bastard!” she snarls, livid and fierce with brutal violence. Her furious eyes sear into Sherlock, pleading with him to go, but Sherlock refuses to do anything so asinine, and continues to point the gun at Moriarty as best as he can with his shaking hand. He feels his heart skip several beats when the sniper light fades, certain that this was it, that they were all about to go up, when Jane suddenly pales, and drops her hands stepping back with her hands raised. Her eyes are trained on the space between his, and it’s not a difficult leap as to where the laser went.

“What? Not going to run, Janey? You can. I’ve only got the one sniper,” Moriarty chides. He brushes invisible lint off of his pristine suit jacket. “You’ve rather shown your hand there, little Sparrow.” He cups her chin, and she doesn’t fight him. “It’s so touching how loyal pets can be.”

“Stop,” Sherlock growls in a low utterance, hand shaking even harder with the force of holding himself back from pulling the trigger. He wills it to steady.

“Although I will admit I don’t see why you of all people would want anything to do with a sidekick,” Moriarty says, ignoring him. He tilts Jane’s head to the side. “Especially since you aren’t _fucking_ her. You could be so much more without this little waif. She’s a bothersome hangnail. The conscientious fly in your ointment. _She slows you down,_ whereas I can make you better.”

“Better? You’re a criminal and a murderer,” Sherlock says. Perspiration beads his brow, threatening to drip into his eyes. The humidity from the pool sticking his clothes to his skin.

“Don’t be trite,” Moriarty says releasing Jane, his dark eyes flicking back to Sherlock. “I am a great deal more than that. I am an architect; a puppeteer. I’ve engineered this grand thing you’ve only barely sunk your teeth into. Don’t try to deny, the possibilities are scintillating. I bet I’ve had you salivating ever since you learnt of my name; lying awake just imagining all of the schemes and conniving it must have taken me to effectively render myself a ghost; a shadow. I’m a magician, Sherlock! Don’t you want to know how I did it?”

Sherlock cups his other hand around the gun, biding his time. He would be lying if he outright denied it. Moriarty was by far the most formidable adversary he had ever had the (mis?)fortune of knowing. Everything about him was flawless, his methods, and his execution. 

“So this is you making me an offer, is it?” Sherlock hedges.

“Precisely.”

“I’m not sure I can offer you anything in return. I have no connections, I’m hardly rich, and the one good thing I _am_ good at is ironically the antithesis to everything you stand for.”

“Don’t pretend you _really_ care about being a detective. We both know that’s a lie. No, no, no, what you live for is the _puzzle,_ and haven’t I already proven to you that there is an endless supply of them? No I know about you, Sherlock. You don’t believe in good and evil, heroes and villains. The only thing there is, is the intrigue. The pursuit of the unknown, of the next high…a newer and greater thrill.”

His face contorts into a grimace of indignation, and he eyes Jane from head to toe in disgust. “So please, do us both a favour and stop this charade. Leave your _morality_ at the door because you and I both know it’s merely a farce.”

“What happens if I don’t take your offer, then? You’ll kill me?” Sherlock asks attempting to sound bored.

Moriarty snorts, and fixes him with an admonishing look. “No…don’t be obvious. Well I am probably going to kill you someday. But I wouldn’t want to waste it on something so dull as a bullet to your brain. No, it would have to be something special I’m sure of it.” His too wide grin scythes across his face. “Do you want to know what I’m going to do to you instead? If you choose to stubbornly stand in my way?” His eyes spark like flint. “I will burn you. I will _burn,”_ he takes a step closer, his features shifting into unfettered hatred as black as tar, “the _heart_ out of you.”

Sherlock keeps his eyes locked with the mad man, watching the insanity dance in his eyes. He doesn’t have to say it for Sherlock to know what he means, and for the briefest moment, his eyes flash to Jane.

“I have been told on various occasions that I do not have one,” Sherlock says mildly.

Moriarty catches this, and his lips twitch into a smile. He leans in close and whispers,“Oh but we both know that’s not true, is it?” He straightens back up, frame slipping into something more casual, perfunctorily adjusting his tie. “Well I’d better be going. It was so nice to have had a proper chat, don’t you think?”

“What if I was to shoot you right here?” Sherlock says stridently, leveling the gun even more.

Moriarty, for his part looks amused. “Well then you can cherish the look of surprise on my face,” he gapes in mock horror, “because I would be surprised, Sherlock, I really would. And maybe a bit…proud at the fact you listened for a change and cast aside your insufferable honour. Of course I would have to take marks off for lack of creativity, not to mention you wouldn’t be able to cherish your triumph for very long.” He glances pointedly up at the darkened gallery above. He shrugs. “Think it over. We’ll be in touch. Caio, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock follows him with the gun as he makes his way through the side doors Jane came in from.

“Catch…you…later,” he says, and Moriarty titters, a belated _‘No you won’t!’_ ringing out from the corridor beyond as the doors slowly shut on their pneumatic hinges.

The second it snaps closed, Sherlock drops the gun and rushes to Jane, kneeling in front of her.

“Sherlock,” she gasps, lips pale, and limbs shaking. Sherlock wills his clammy fingers to cooperate and unbuckle the vest.

“All right?” he asks frantically, struggling with the zipper now. (The blasted thing was caught in the lining.) _“Are you all right?”_

“Yes, Sherlock it —” He manages to yank the zipper down. “Sherlock…”

“Get this… _thing_ …off. Now. Off,” Sherlock says ripping the parka and vest clean off her shoulders, cardigan and all. He flings it as far away as possible, the ensemble skidding along the tiles.

“It’s not even real,” Jane murmurs. Sherlock runs to the door, scooping up the gun in the process to see if there was any way to catch up with the lunatic. It was futile. “I didn’t realise. He was just bluffing, the – the whole time.”

“What?” Sherlock says finally coming back. “Bluffing?”

Jane looks up at him then, eyes bright with incongruous humour verging on hysteria. “The bomb. It’s – it’s a fake. I didn’t realise until I grabbed him. I should have known. I’ve seen…seen Semtex before…” she trails off, voice threading out. Sherlock barely catches her as her knees buckle.

“Woah,” Sherlock says. Jane’s hands clutch his suit jacket, and a watery laugh scrapes up her throat.

“Bluffing. Christ, Sherlock,” she says, shaking horribly. Sherlock holds her to him even tighter, lips pressing into her hair as she struggles to breathe properly.

The prickling sensation on his scalp was still there, however, and Sherlock casts his eyes about uneasily. There was still something off, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. He looks across the pool, gaze flickering over the water and along the row of changing stalls, brain reeling as he ticks off the curtains over each one in a mindless exercise, noting how they alternate between red and blue, identical to the ones behind him. He shakes his head a little, trying to break out of his nascent panic. (It wouldn’t do to lose his wits now.)

“That thing you did…” Sherlock starts, brain playing catch up. “That you offered…god how could you do something so stupid?” His voice is hoarse and thin, and his own tremors are starting up deep within his bones. “So bloody stupid.”

“Yeah well…I’m an idiot,” Jane says into his chest. He can feel the dampness of her tears soaking through his shirt.

Just then, the jangling sound of an antiquated alarm clock rings out through the empty pool making both of them jump. They look towards the faux bomb vest in confusion.

“An alarm?” Sherlock says.

“There was a phone in the pocket. For him to talk to me through. What…?” Jane says, frame coiling in tension.

Sherlock’s heart pounds in his chest, and his eyes snap open wide.

 _‘… Someone hasn’t been paying attention, Sherlock,’_ Moriarty’s voice mocks loud in his ear.

His gaze lands on the changing stalls across from them one last time. All of the curtains are pulled to the side except for one lone blue one on the end that has been drawn shut.

_Misdirection._

(Stupid. He was so bloody stupid!)

_Revelation._

The horror coils tight in his gut, propelling him into action.

“JANE!” he bellows, tucking her head under one of his arms. 

With every ounce of strength and renewed adrenaline he has, he hauls them both backwards into the cubicle behind them just as the stalls opposite explode, plunging Sherlock’s world into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! I did it again! Ah cliff hangers! 
> 
> *leaves apology cookies*
> 
> *runs and hides*


	17. Barbed Wire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Let the rain, let the rain, come in this place. Let the harsh sun be washed away..._   
>  _\--Tim Coons._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here we are my loves. The end of this installment, and oh my goodness what a ride. I could not have done this without all of you, and I can't tell you how much it means to me that there are other people who care about Jane and Sherlock as much as I do.
> 
> I hope you like this. It packs a punch.
> 
> I love you all,  
> xxHoney

* * *

Sherlock wakes with a shrieking in his head, and his side burning in agony. Something heavy is on his left arm, pinning it to the hard ground, and delirious, he struggles before the pain forces him to stop. Taking a breath, he shoves the panic back and tries to make his eyes work in the dim light despite his swimming vision. Everything aches, and he is disorientated, not remembering where he is for a moment. His head buzzes with pain, and when he tries to get up, his ribs groan and shift sharply against each other, grinding and scraping under his skin, and he is unable to stop the sob that gusts out of him.

Broken ribs, then. But how in the hell —?

He tries to look around again, when he realises that the reason he can hardly see is due to the swath of blood impeding his vision, and with his free hand he swipes at it as best as he can. He makes out the curve of Jane’s back as she lies on her side and sees that she is the reason why his other arm is trapped, and all at once everything comes flooding back.

“Jane!” he calls. He coughs and whimpers in pain, unearthing patches of concrete dust about them, and looks around some more. The cubicle he had thrown them into is partially collapsed, the wall to their right leaning haphazardly against the other, only a stiff breeze away from falling directly on top of them. The little hole they were sequestered in for the time being managed to keep most of the blast at bay, but the debris and twisted metal around was keeping them partially buried. Sherlock looks around, surprised that he can even see from the weak lightbulb somewhere off to his left that managed to stay in tact. It’s flickering precariously however, and Sherlock isn’t sure how long it’s going to last. (Limited space, no discernable exit, no knowing how much air they have. Time is of the essence.) He has to keep calm and trust that the Met are on their way. “Jane?” he says again, voice shaking horribly. He can tell she’s alive, and that’s what he has to keep in mind.

He tentatively runs a hand along her back, pausing a moment so he could reassure himself further by the slow rise and fall of her chest. After counting the beats of her heart, he rouses her bit by bit firmly rubbing between her shoulder blades until she swims to the surface with a small groan.

“Jane? Please wake up. Please,” Sherlock says. The meager light dims alarmingly for a second.

“Sh’lock?” Jane says, and tries to shift around to see him. She stiffens, biting back a sharp cry of pain.

“Where are you hurt?” Sherlock says frantically. He grips her shoulder and tries to lean over so he could see her face, but the pain in his ribs halts his movement.

“My – my leg. I think it’s broken,” Jane says through erratic bursts of air. She takes a moment to compose herself. “You? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock responds, forcing his heart to settle back in his chest where it belonged.

“Bullshit,” Jane huffs through a weak laugh. She holds her breath, and before Sherlock can stop her, she turns herself to her other side, clenching her teeth and choking back a sob. She looks at him through the tears in her eyes, putting aside her own pain and clinically assessing him for injury. His left arm comes up to provide a cushion for her head while she attempts to get a good look at the gash on his temple from her less than ideal position. “It’s not too deep,” she says wiping some of the blood away. “You might have a mild concussion.”

“Not bad considering,” Sherlock says.

“What the fuck happened?” Jane says in shaky voice.

Sherlock licks his dry lips, grimacing at the taste of blood and dirt. “Bomb. In the changing stall. I don’t think he wanted to kill us though or he would have strapped you into a real one.”

 _“God,”_ she says closing her eyes. “Does anybody know we’re here?”

Sherlock takes a shallow breath. “No.”

“So Greg doesn’t know you came?” Jane repeats, her words laced with a deadly kind of anger. It’s good that she’s angry. The adrenaline will keep her from feeling the pain as acutely for the time being.

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course he doesn’t know,” he snaps half-heartedly just to keep her ire up. He tries to calculate the structure they are trapped under to see if there way a way he could kick their way out without it folding in on them like a house of cards.

“Dammit, Sherlock!” Jane says, her voice a husk of itself and lacking its usual force. She grips his collar tight, hand shaking. “Why do you insist on being so bloody reckless?”

“You should talk,” Sherlock rebuts. He fixes her with a fierce look. “ _Throwing_ yourself at a psychopath with a bomb strapped to you?” He’s no longer pretending to pick a fight as his own anger creeps up on him. “Of all the incredibly _stupid_ things —”

“It was fake!”

“You didn’t know that until after the fact!” Sherlock yells. He winces as he accidentally jars his ribs, and has to close his eyes against the sickening stabbing in his side.

“Sherlock?” Jane says, the rage draining from her voice. She leans back as much as she can in the confined space so she could look at him. “What’s wrong? Where else are you hurt?”

“Ribs,” he wheezes trying to get his breathing under control, and the roiling in his stomach to stop. It was getting harder and harder to keep drawing in air.

“Hang on,” Jane says shifting to a slumped sitting position as best as she could. She grunts through her own pain, and helps guide Sherlock to where he is carefully reclining upright against her chest, gingerly manoeuvring what must be her uninjured leg so she is bracketing him in an improvised straddle from behind. Breathing comes easier, and they both sit there in silence letting their collective pain ebb somewhat. After a moment, she gently palpates his left side, and he groans. “Broken. You need to be careful they don’t puncture your lung.” 

“Mm,” Sherlock says. After another beat of tense silence, Sherlock says, “I’m sure Lestrade knows by now where we are. He isn’t completely hopeless as a detective.”

“Right,” Jane says. Her breath buffets against the nape of his neck. The light flickers again, and with a tight sigh Jane goes to move her hand from his side. Even though his ribs grind unpleasantly, Sherlock reaches across and grabs it before she breaks contact. She stills, and he slowly brings it up to rest in the centre of his chest. “Sherlock…”

“Don’t. Just…”

“I’m still angry with you,” Jane says, but she doesn’t remove her hand, so Sherlock tangles their fingers together.

“I know.”

She huffs a laugh at this that quickly dissolves into a broken sob of a sound, and her fingers clench even tighter in his as if caught between wanting to let him go and wanting to hold on.

“Christ, Sherlock! Do you even realise what you – how _deeply_ you hurt me?” He can feel the tremors wrack her from behind, and for once Sherlock is glad he can’t see her face. She hums low in her throat, a terrible repression of grief fissuring deep within her that echoes through out his own hollowness as if she were shouting into all the empty places inside him. When she speaks again, her voice is drawn and anguished. 

“I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want to. Do you get that? No, what am I saying? Of course you do. You are the single most enigmatic man I’ve ever met. And you know what’s frustrating about that? The fact that you get to see everything and tear everyone apart just because it suits you, whereas no one can even _touch_ you — can even _breach_ those cold walls you’ve surrounded yourself with.” She gasps, her words paling at the end and Sherlock feels her press her face into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. She is wrung to her limit and trying her hardest not to let the tears fall as she composes herself amidst the dichotomy of physical pain and the pain in her heart. Sherlock tries to imagine the depth of her grief through the tangible crushing sensation in his own chest because if there was ever a time for empathy, surely it would be now. 

Despite his efforts, he finds that through it all he doesn’t even know where to start.

He clears his stinging throat. “I can’t understand,” he begins honestly, “but not because I don’t want to. I have likened myself as a sociopath for so long that the part of me that should come equipped with human sympathy has atrophied beyond recognition. Before you, I’ve never needed to try to harness this notion; never seen the benefit to put sentiment above fact, which is what I’ve done with you time and time again. But…” he trails off, momentarily losing courage. Jane holds her breath, and her balled up fist slowly unfurls to rest flat over his heart. He takes as deep a breath as he can manage, and plows onwards. “But if you believe in the heart — the heart you gave me, then you will believe me when I say that I want to try. For the first time in my life, god, I would like to try.”

Jane lets the tears fall then, shuttering them away as best as she can. She heaves silently, hand clenching and unclenching in his shirt. “Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes,” she rasps harshly. “Gave you a heart — no that’s all you, you infuriating bastard,” she almost laughs again, the bitterness palpable even though it is infused with a double-edged sort of fondness; a barbed sort of affection. 

That’s what he was to her: barbed wire to her tender heart, wrapping around her and choking her sprit. And like a bad car wreck, he didn’t know how to stop it from happening. The thought is surprisingly painful to a degree he didn’t think he was capable of feeling. 

It’s rather overwhelming, and he brings her hand up and rests his lips against the tops of her knuckles seeking to comfort them both through gesture instead of his clumsy and careless words. He notices the blood and bruising marring the flesh, (she hit something hard and repeatedly, using the pain to block out his hateful words) and he lets his lips travel further to her palm so he can breathe in the scent of her skin to ease his guilt. There is a steady ache ricocheting around in his own chest now, which has nothing to do with his broken ribs.

Jane’s forehead is still resting on the cusp of his shoulder, and the tension in her gradually lessens. Carefully, she winds her other arm around his waist, and grips on tight to the corner of his suit jacket. He wants to say something more — he knows he probably should — but the words stick in his throat.

They sit there as the light slowly fades until they are nearly completely subsumed by darkness, the only thing left a dying glow. The deadening silence envelopes them until Jane takes a determined breath.

“His name was William Alfred Murray, and he was a Lieutenant and a Nurse,” Jane says, lifting her head. “He was American-born and he loved James Bond, and had deep green eyes that would sparkle when he looked up at the vast desert sky. He helped me save a lot of people, and he helped me stay together during the times when I couldn’t even save one. He was an anchor, a fixed point in my swirling doubt and crushing guilt, and I felt deeply for him. But I didn’t love him that way. He looked after me, and kept me upright, so it really was no surprise when he refused to leave my side when I signed on for Infantry. I couldn’t stand being in the tents or at the hospital. I felt so useless, and I told him so. God, was he angry, but he did the only thing he knew how and followed me. It was stupidly brave of him…” she drops off, losing herself momentarily in the memory. When she starts back up again, her voice is rough.

“About a month in we were ambushed, and lost half of our company. Bill was among them along with our Colonel, leaving me second in command. When I found out Bill was missing, I immediately gave the order to turn back. We barely made it to the compound before they we on us again. It was a massacre. They were expecting us, and surrounded us within seconds. Somewhere during the melee I was hit hard under the chin and being forced to my knees, a gun jamming into the base of my skull. I could feel the hammer being pulled back, and was convinced that was it when the sound Bill’s rapid Pashto stopped them from behind me. He told them I was a medic just like he was, and they decided to spare us because of our skills. They killed the rest, however, without a second thought. Their blood will never be off my hands, and on more than one occasion I had almost wished they killed me.” The words fall out of her mouth like dry, dead leaves, and Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut against the thought. (The thought of Jane Watson not existing in this world was truly terrifying, and could not be made into reality.) She takes a fortifying breath and pushes forward, and a large part of Sherlock doesn’t want to hear anymore. But if Jane lived it, then he could at least listen.

“At first we were beaten and made to talk into a camera, presumably for terrorist purposes, but I maintained that I had no family, and Bill was an orphan. They kept us apart at first, and I don’t know how many days passed before we were moving again. They kept black hoods over our heads so we couldn’t see where we were going, and I didn’t even know Bill was still alive until they shoved us into the same cell.” She swallows audibly, head bowing towards Sherlock’s shoulder once more. “We clung to each other because we didn’t have anything else. The circumstances were so awful that they created a dangerous co-dependency within us that was destructive and unhealthy, and couldn’t have possibly existed out side of the utter _hell_ we were both living in.

“It – it was a mistake, but what came out of it was miraculous,” her voice cracks with emotion, but she surges on. “The promise of that little thing growing inside of me gave us hope for the first time. It allowed us to pull our wits together so we could figure out how to escape because there was no way I was going to have a child in the middle of a POW camp. No doubt they would’ve killed it the moment they found out, besides.” He feels her chest hitch as she struggles for air, curling further into his frame.

“How did you escape?” Sherlock croaks, a wrought lump of iron settling in his gut. He doesn’t want to push her, but he wants — no _needs_ to understand. Because the parallels aren’t lost on him; he sees the comparisons, the destructive path their own relationship could potentially head, this new thing blooming in the midst of chaos. He knows the dark seduction of her presence, and how it alters his own brain chemistry to represent something similar to cocaine or heroin. It was Not Good, and this was too important to throw caution to the wind. So he encourages her to keep talking about the festering wound guarded closely under that steadfast armour, because losing her isn’t an option.

After another moment of deep breathing, Jane nods to herself and continues. “They started taking us out whenever one of their people needed medical attention. We weren’t allowed to talk unless it was related to tending to their injured. I saved a lot of them, and to this day I still resent that. I shouldn’t because they were just people like us fighting the same pointless war, but I couldn’t help but hate every last one of them. Time and time again I chastised myself for not letting them just _die._ It was dark and cruel of me, but the thing is: I don’t feel guilty over it. I know I should but I don’t. It’s been burned out of me by the cruelty inflicted upon me in the process. Hatred breeds hatred I suppose. I honestly shouldn’t even be allowed to call myself a doctor any more, because most days, I couldn’t fucking care _less_ about the petty afflictions of simple people with their simple lives when I have suffered aeons. I try so hard not to let on. So hard, but…”

A tremor passes through her again, something dark and fathomless and Sherlock can feel her tensing, rallying herself for the finish. 

“Bill was the one who lifted the keys, and we waited for the right time to make our escape. It took forever, and I was becoming sicker by the day. Then an incredible thing happened. Their camp was attacked by another terrorist group, and in the chaos we were able to make it out. We were both too wrung out, half starved, and jacked up on adrenaline to really think properly, so it’s no wonder we were caught in the cross fire.” She inhales a quick breath, and Sherlock closes his eyes in the near-darkness. 

“I remember…crouching down by an old building, disorientated and burning with fever,” she picks up again, her words weighted with the horror and grief sustained so long under that crushing shroud she had wrapped herself in. 

“Bill slipped around the corner to check if the coast was clear. I saw him running towards me just as I spotted the glint of the sniper rifle in the top window of the building across from us. He had seen it too, and knew it was aiming for me. He caught the brunt of it, but it traveled straight through both of us. The only reason we didn’t die right then and there was because it turned out to be a defective hollow-point. Still though…” she says, voice bereft.

“I don’t even know how I did it, but I dragged his sorry arse for a good five miles until I couldn’t anymore. He had had enough, and begged me to leave him so I could strike out on my own and hopefully find a road. I told him he was an idiot, and that I would get help, and so help me he wasn’t allowed to die —” The word catches and breaks into sharp fragments. Sherlock’s hand shoots up and cradles the side of Jane’s face, fingers sliding into the hair at her temple, frustrated he couldn’t comfort her properly as the sobs began to overtake her. 

“I had to leave him, I _had_ to, if I had any hope or chance for either of us, so that’s what I did. I dragged him over to a small embankment to keep him out of the sun, promising to return, promising that we would both somehow make it back home. He knew it was a lie, of course. It’s funny how you just know things like that when you’re dying. He smiled, and kissed me one last time, and I knew it too. I would have just laid down right there if it wasn’t for —” she cuts herself off, gasping for air at this point, and turns her face into his hand. 

“An American convoy found me on the side of the road, and I woke up six weeks later, with an honourable discharge and a pat on the back, and that was that.” Sherlock can feel her heavy tears, and wipes one away with his thumb as he cups her cheek. She huffs bitterly, “And you know what really pisses me off? It was all for fucking nothing, Sherlock! Despite the anger and the hope and the sheer force of will that pushed me to leave that godforsaken place, I lost _everything anyway.”_ The last is torn from her, harsh and bloody, and oh so terrible.

Sherlock can’t take it any more, and careful not to jostle Jane’s leg, he manages to turn around in the cramped space so he is facing her on his knees. His ribs pull and creak painfully, but he can hardly be arsed to care.

In the remaining light, he is just able to make out her silvery outline and glistening eyes, and he cups her face between his broad palms.

“You didn’t lose your life, Jane. That’s got to account for something,” Sherlock says fiercely.

“I am broken inside, Sherlock,” she grits out, hands grasping his forearms.

“I’ll fix it,” he growls defiantly, and Jane’s breath stutters out of her, hot and damp and full of guilt and grief. Her hands slip from his arms and her fingers catch his shirt collar, pulling him to her with a desperate neediness that causes an electric heat to spread outwards from the base of his spine. He goes to her willingly despite the screaming in his side, and in the dimness their lips clash together hungrily. He pulls back for air only to dive in again and again, content to relinquish his oxygen if only to prevent her from drowning in sorrow. “I’ll fix it, _I’ll fix it,”_ he says over and over, twining his fingers into her disheveled hair. He can taste her tears on his tongue as he pushes into her mouth, soaking up her agony, and swallowing the sound of her broken moans as they bob to the surface one by one.

When they are both shaking, they break apart, and Jane presses her face into the base of his throat.

“You can’t, Sherlock,” she says, voice laced with anguish. “You can’t fix it. I have to do it. I have to or this won’t work between us.”

Sherlock huffs a bitter laugh. “With what, therapy? After how well that worked out the last time?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, yeah. I have to try something,” Jane says grasping at him even harder as if he would get up and simply leave. (Even if he could there was nothing that would make him do such a thing.)

“What makes you think it will work this time?” Sherlock says. He can’t keep the anger and the hurt out of his voice.

“Because I wasn’t really trying last time. I had nothing to _try_ for,” Jane says earnestly. “I don’t want to destroy myself and leave you with nothing; I want to give you the whole of me. Not shattered and damaged and filled with regret. You’re too important, too valuable. I won’t fuck this up, do you understand me?”

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly, and brings his hand to the back of her neck. He leans his forehead against hers, thumb stroking her nape, and sighs.

“What do you need?” he says, heart sinking.

Carefully, she draws him close, mindful of his ribs, and tucks his face against her collarbone. She cards her fingers through his hair as he wraps his arms around her, hunkering down in the vee of her legs. She brings her good one up for him to lean against, easing the pressure in his side, and presses her soft lips against his temple.

“Time,” she whispers. “I need time.”

They sit there in the silence, clinging and fragile, and listen as the sound of sirens grows in the distance.

“Then you shall have it,” he says at last, a promise etched into the tender skin below her jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the interim installment called 'During,' as well as the next chapter, the redeux of ASiB called 'Fraud, Scandal, and Farce.'


End file.
